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incorrect-ikevamp-quotes · 4 years

Note

I mean in Leonardo's route he mentions Comte used to be a smoker! AND, it's heavily implied Comte used to be a wild child so!

Comte spoilers below, please don’t open if you’d prefer to wait to find out! I know I’m 100% feral for Comte but I don’t want to diminish anyone else’s experience~

Yes, there are indications that he once engaged in smoking, and was implied to be even worse than Leonardo (a chainsmoker of epic proportions, so to speak). As for whether or not Comte was a wild child, I have no way to confirm that with the current information that Cybird has provided, but there are heavy allusions to him going off the rails (at least for a vampire of noble blood). There are several mentions–if I recall correctly he states it himself–that he’s been running from his legacy for a very long time, and only recently settled down and took up the full weight of his aristocratic title. Unfortunately we don’t know much more than that. But I wouldn’t be surprised, he wandered quite a bit around Europe before turning the men of the mansion. In the few glimpses into his backstory we receive there is also plenty of fuel for a so-called teenage or adolescent vampire rebellious phase. Both he and Leonardo have a profound compassion for other people/creatures, and vehemently reject the social hierarchy/power dynamics that other purebloods seem to want to enforce.

Among the few scenes I have seen that can testify to his more wild behavior is an event that is likely headed to the english app very soon. There was a story event that featured the suitors–as a pair–enjoying a drink and often reminiscing about the past. Comte and Leonardo are seated at a bar, and they’re drinking their own weight in alcohol and bewildering nearby patrons. Leonardo asks if Comte remembers when it was that they became good friends, and Comte is all “I have no idea what you’re talking abt MORE BOURBON.” Spoilers: he likely knows, or at least has an inkling, and doesn’t want to remember his own punk ass going feral. Anywho, Leonardo goes into it anyway, and describes a situation in which he and Comte attended some kind of social event. Upon exiting the venue, they see/hear a young woman being assaulted in an alley by several men. Now, Leonardo is already cracking his knuckles, excited to unleash a can of whoop ass–but Comte actually beats him to it. He goes stone cold and starts knocking out the people hurting her, asking them how they like being on the receiving end of violence. He then gingerly lifts the young lady and asks Leonardo to get the carriage, since it’s raining out and he would hate for her to catch a cold. This is the moment in which Leonardo learns that–for all of Comte’s adherence to his noble title’s customs–all of that ceases to matter when somebody is in need of his help. And that’s why they became friends; because all of Comte’s money, all of his prestige and social recognition doesn’t mean shit to him. He would give it up in seconds if it meant doing the right thing. His principles and his convictions outweigh any of his perceived materiality, no matter how he conducts himself or seems to others.

One of the greater issues Comte seems to struggle with–and could very possibly have been the reason he distanced himself from his own family–is the way that vampires drop humans like flies. Even if they aren’t engaging in a predatory relationship, in some ways humans are deemed expendable regardless. He had the privilege of being born into a family that treats human beings with respect and perhaps even affection, but every single one of his teachers, caretakers, and the servants in the house he grew up with were fired long before he became an adult. But he was just old enough to understand why they left, and it crushed him. Getting too close was deemed dangerous, for both parties; it would hurt the purebloods more to leave somebody they were attached too, and the humans in their employ would grow suspicious/fearful, perhaps even violent, if they noticed that they didn’t age. But like Leonardo, Comte loves the company of all kinds of people, and to be forced to cut ties for the sake of his own emotional and physical health was shattering for him (death is impossible as far as we know, but that doesn’t make vampires impervious to pain).

I think he spent a very long time rejecting that mindset, until he started to live life on his own and saw how difficult it was. To love people fully, and watch their lives end what felt like hours later. Over and over and over again. Four hundred years is a long time to love and lose people, and while it can be easy to believe that all grieving really requires is letting go, such a thing is much easier said than done. Leonardo wrestles with it just as much as Comte does; the only reason Comte fairs a little better is because he exercises considerable restraint. He’s been burned before, and he’s edging the flames more carefully now. Even so, we see several moments in which this self-control collapses; he will never stand in the way of MC’s happiness with someone else–but the attraction is always simmering beneath the surface, never fully realized. Literally the entire crux of his own route is that he’s trying, trying desperately not to just move where is heart is taking him, but failing anyway because MC has the courage to meet him halfway–wants to meet him halfway, despite their differences.

One of the hardest things Comte is probably forced to contend with is that, no matter how vehemently he feels that his family was wrong, life proves that in some regards they were right. It is extremely difficult to engage in the kind of life they live without a modicum of self-restraint, or at the very some kind of healthy grieving process. Eternity isn’t going to wait for them to feel better, life isn’t going to stop taking the people they love just because they were born under different circumstances, or are another species altogether. Life doesn’t have any mercy, in that regard, and so they must be merciful and understanding with themselves. In the course of his lifetime he’s forgotten how to be gentle with himself, and he’s forgotten how to look forward to each day to come. For better or worse, his answer to the pain of forever was to shut himself down as swiftly and powerfully as he could to stop the growing whirpool of poorly resolved grief, or perhaps better described as melancholia. He was able to survive the first downspiral, but that doesn’t mean he’s confident he’ll survive another. And survival doesn’t necessarily entail living well, it means doing what you must to forge on–no matter how much it hurts.

(I will say that I can clarify what I mean by the specific term melancholia, because I don’t mean it in the colloquial sense. But I’ll give the disclaimer here for the sake of sparing everyone a technical argument they might not care about lol keep reading after the dashes for the conclusion)

—

Essentially, Freud contends that people process grief in two distinct ways, as I will loosely summarize. Mourning is the reaction to some kind of loss (whether a person, a concept, an opportunity, etc.) that inspires a short-term level of discomfort and unhappiness. Most people heal on their own over time, and it’s something that most people have experienced before. Melancholia, on the other hand, is more or less mourning that has never ended. It is described as a prolonged state of dejection in which all the color in life has dissolved and left, in which one’s self-regard often diminishes (not usually a side effect of mourning, but specific to melancholia) and they lose their will to go on slowly but surely.

In Comte’s route he literally says that MC eases the void in his heart, makes him look forward to every single day; that “his time” starts moving again. That the reason he reciprocated her feelings at all instead of stifling them was because he just fell into the comfort and joy of her presence, couldn’t help himself in wanting to see and talk to her. He describes her love as an irresistible “magic,” something with the capacity to transfigure the fragments of his experience into a de facto life.

Sound familiar?

—

And that’s the whole point, that’s what we as the player are here to do. We’re supposed to help him find the magic in the little things again, hope for better again. Make it so that when he does open his heart and lets himself feel freely again, anguish isn’t the only thing that finds him. We’re supposed to help him stop living in the hellscape of anxiety that he’s been forcing into silence, a depression so wide and deep it’s a wonder he never went mad.

So uh, this kind of became ridiculously meta, but that’s why I love Comte? And that’s as much as I know about him, as of now. Hoping for more details in the jpn app in the future! I know I got a little sidetracked, do forgive me–I get really in it when I discuss Comte LOL

#ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp spoilers #ikevamp comte #ikevamp saint germain #ikevamp meta #not incorrect quotes #rambles #good lord idk what is with me this week i cant use two brain cells without showing up with a thesis #if any of yall find the energy to read through this bless #i promise i will be back with those heady memes soon #quarantine deadass be like: room for self-improvement??? fuck no we obsess over 2d men instead #anyhoot that's my five cents on that topic and what i've learned from the rt #comte propaganda #i literally cannot breathe without thinking about my love for him #well-played monsieur

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gothic-safari-clown · 3 years

Text

The Mind’s Power Over the Body

Part 16: Round Two?

Story summary: They only ever had each other. It had been that way since high school, ever since Elianna transferred to dreary Arlen and took Jonathan under her wing. They go separate ways for college, and when they're reunited at Arkham Asylum professionally, Elianna comes to find that they've both changed during their time separated. Can she look past the promise of danger and stay by Jonathan's side as they slide further and further into the darkness while she grapples to come to terms with the truth about herself? Can she accept what needs to be done in order to hold onto the only person who holds any meaning in her life? This is a very self-indulgent AU that draws from several different canons of the DCU and ignoring others, starting in the Batman Begins Nolanverse. This will follow the plot of the movie, although the timeline has been very slightly tweaked.

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / Part Eight / Part Nine / Part Ten / Part Eleven / Part Twelve / Part Thirteen / Part Fourteen / Part Fifteen

Word count: 1559

El had been right about her mysterious savior in that his interference grew to be something that could be quite a nuisance to them. It wasn't long after Jonathan's meeting with Falcone that he had returned with a new, tricked out getup. Rumors around town had confirmed that it was the same man and seemed to solidify the vigilante theory.

Gadgets or not, the pair had yet to see the effects of the toxin on the caped crusader. Jonathan had come home that night composed as always, but she had recognized the troubled look in his eyes. Between that and the attack on Falcone, it seemed that whoever was having little trouble sniffing out their plot.

"What's the bad news?" She sighed, putting down the book she had been reading. Jonathan just shook his head in response, loosening his tie.

"The bad news-" he sighed, rubbing his hand down his face, "is that Rachel Dawes is still alive, and rumors are that she has some leverage over the judge that Falcone paid off for the organization."

"Oh, shit," El put her forehead in her palm. After all of the traction that the so-called 'Batman' had gained so quickly, the last thing she had expected was to hear that the meddling DA was still around. "Well, wait, the bad news? Does that mean there's good news too?" She lifted her head again, relieved to see him nod.

"That microwave emitter that I told you about, for the final stage, it came in, it's all ready to go. If-" he cut off the look of excitement on El's face, "we can prevent the DA's office from throwing another wrench in."

"Jonathan, don't worry about that." She rolled her eyes and stood from the couch. "They have leverage on the DA, not Falcone's staff at the shipyard, and before they can build a case, they need to have proof that we even have it."

"If they get a warrant-"

"Then the boys at the docks will take care of it, that's what I'm trying to say. Now, will you relax? Everything is going to be fine. We have the machine, and we have more than enough of the toxin."

Jonathan was still leaning back slightly against the table, pinching the bridge of his nose. Elianna sighed, silently cursing her friend's perfectionist nature, and moved his hand away from his face and replaced it with her own hands on either cheek.

"Can you just once relax and appreciate your own work? Do you need a cigarette?"

"No, I don't need a cigarette; they're disgusting. I need to find a way to foolproof this damn thing."

"It is disgusting, it's absolutely revolting, but I think it'll bring you into the present and give you at least a couple minutes to step away from being you." She patted his cheek and nudged him toward the fire escape window.

"From being me?"

"Yeah. Let's not be you right now. Let's be me instead, and be proud of your work." Jonathan rolled his eyes but went along with her.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to stop thinking for a minute.

You'll listen to her and not me? I'm very hurt, Jonny. You don't share a body with her.

Standing outside smoking, leaning against the rail, the pair stared out at the city before them.

"Look at that. It's disgusting. You should have come to California with me when you had the chance." Elianna teased and elbowed Jonathan lightly. He responded by exhaling slowly and giving a look that said 'maybe.' "Okay, look; you're still not being me, you're not here. Look out there," she pointed with her cigarette. "Gotham is falling apart, and if I remember correctly, it has been for decades. What you are doing with this project will end all of that once and for all. This city is a stain, and you're cleaning it out, once and for all."

A long pause hung between them as Jonathan let his friend's words sink in. She was right, and for the first time since the beginning of the whole plot, he felt a sense of pride for his contribution. Ultimately, this was for the greater good, and he would be the one to pull the trigger on it.

Pride was quickly replaced with a relaxed contentedness, and Jonathan took another drag, almost enjoying the taste.

"Actually," he began, "I think now we are cleaning it out. Give yourself some credit." He turned El's little speech back on her and watched as she floundered.

"Well, I—I haven't really done anything, I'm just sort of here, and honestly, I should have gone back to my apartment ages ago-"

"There isn't really any point now; there are only two weeks before we start." El nodded and returned her gaze to the skyline.

"I'm sorry for being in your space for so long. I really didn't mean to be here still." She turned her head to look at Jonathan.

"I already told you, I like having you around." El's eyes widened at the genuine admission. "Besides, if someone were to come after you, I'd rather you not be alone. I think we both know how that usually ends up by now." He finished with a grim smile, and the redhead nodded in agreement. Everything seemed to come back to the late Granny Keeny.

Remembering the painful and dangerous situation in which her friend was brought up made her sad, and she moved closer to rest her head on his shoulder. "I'm just glad I could help. I know I give you a hard time, but I love you very much." El told him matter-of-factly, planted a kiss on his arm before returning her head to his shoulder, and took a drag off the stick between her fingers.

Jonathan found himself glad that she couldn't see his face, as her words caused his eyes to shut of their own accord. Even Scarecrow's filthy encouragements were drowned out as he privately reveled in El's affection. The insecure teenager still inside of him reminded him that whatever she said was meant platonically, but he allowed himself a quiet moment to pretend.

Connecting with people had never been his strong suit, and that fact had continued to hold into adulthood. But being around Elianna every day again for the first time in years served to remind him of the benefits of personal relationships. Even so, it frustrated him to no end that he had yet to figure out whether his attraction to his friend was based on the comfort of her presence or something else.

Even thinking about it made him tired. Slowly, almost tentatively, his head rested on hers. In response, her free arm wrapped around his to keep him there.

Unbeknownst to Jonathan, Elianna was facing a similar dilemma. It was a debate she had been having with herself since she had moved to Gotham, and as much as she wanted to convince herself finally to take the chance, now was most certainly not the time. Besides...

"It's Saturday."

"Yes, it is."

"You said that we were going to dose me again; we were supposed to do that last night."

The moment broke, and Jonathan let out a long-suffering sigh. "Alright, if you're so eager," he extinguished his half-smoked cigarette and tossed it down onto the ground below with El following suit.

Once back inside, the pair both went automatically to prepare for the ordeal. As Elianna settled onto the bed, Jonathan spoke again.

"You know you don't have to do this again. We were already going to get you a gas mask like the one I have."

"I know." She replied simply, and with a Look, Jonathan began fastening the restraints.

"May I ask why you want to do this so badly?" There was a silence as the redhead pondered her answer.

While some of her motivation came from the perspective of 'just in case of an accident,' she was reluctant to admit the real reason: that once the toxin wore off, the flooding of endorphins left her exhilarated and wanting more. That the rush of surviving something traumatic and harrowing, even just an assault on her psyche, left her feeling powerful, if somewhat exhausted.

Despite her reluctance, Jonathan seemed to know the answer already.

"The thrill of making it through?" El couldn't help the short laugh that escaped.

"I guess that sounds kinda crazy." Jonathan shook his head.

"Not at all. I went through the same thing." He assured as he finished fastening all of the restraints and retrieved the old belt from the dresser where it had been left. "Just remember," he continued as he placed it between her teeth, "that I am going to be here the entire time, alright?" Before he could think about the action, he laid his hand against her cheek comfortingly. Reading her expression, he nodded, "I promise."

El nodded and took a deep breath through her nose to prepare herself, staring at the ceiling before nodding firmly. With that, Jonathan wiped the injection site clean with an alcohol swab and carefully stuck the prepared needle into her vein, and pushed in the plunger.

#the mind's power over the body #Jonathan Crane #scarecrow #Nolanverse #batman begins #Elianna Montgomery #jonathan crane x ofc #slight au #multi chapter fic #scarecrow fanfic #fanfiction #Attraction To The Insane #atti #cillian murphy #cillian murphy scarecrow #tmpotb chapter 16

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manjehaal · 4 years

Text

Avenging Her

Read on AO3.

Nora grasped the hilt of her saber, backing her steps, lifting the amethyst blade to shield her face. The hum of the weapon could not quiet her skipping heartbeat. It was like a fist wrapped around her lungs, as a rush of cold air hit her exposed arms.

Khione, as they called her, stood above the tie-fighter, hovering over the Sith temple like a phantom, with silvery eyes lit like a candle in the shadows. The tie lowered, and Khione landed without noise, igniting her saber as she met eyes with the girl. "Put the weapon down, child."

“I’m not afraid of you," Nora said, angling her saber into a threatening stance, held still despite the shakiness of her knees.

The woman possessed a wicked smirk as if to mock the girl's attempt at bravery. “Then you will die braver than most," she said, slashing at Nora's blade, pushing back with a force that the young padawan couldn't compete with. She feared, if Khione pushed any harder on her weapon, her arms might collapse into themselves. She stumbled back at another strike, finding the hilt slashed away from her fingers just as soon as the woman's scarlet blade sliced through it, leaving it in pieces on the floor of the temple.

"Perhaps I was wrong," Khione said, narrowing her icy eyes at the child and bringing her saber to hover above Nora's head, about to strike.

But coming from the lit end of the opposite entrance, standing wide-eyed with fury, was a man. A man that Khione had thought would be long dead, buried in the grounds of the fallen Jedi, a ghost taken by one of Vader's inquisitors. A man that she hadn't set her eyes on since she bore the name of someone else.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said, voice steady, causing Khione to startle into frozenness, letting her blade hover over the head of the trembling padawan. He was looking at her with untamed fury, like he carried the weight of all the fallen, coming to seek their vengeance.

And at his anger, Khione was struck frozen under his gaze.

~.~

Caitlin assessed the damaged skin, running a cool finger over the edge of his palm. A stray brush of Zolomon's saber did little damage to his hand but left a blistery ache that caused him to flinch at the healer's cold touch.

"How did this happen?" she asked, pressing a bacta-patch over his skin.

"I had a vision," he said simply, taking a deep breath, bringing his injured hand to his lap, wincing at the way his fingers shifted. "And I acted too quickly to prevent it."

"And did you prevent it?"

"This time."

It was a common cause of injury, a Jedi's foresight. Many Jedi, especially the young, would run headfirst into battle at the time of their first vision. But with time, it became easier to navigate such power, and they began to control their compulsions. Based on the stories of this particular young Jedi, she had assumed he would be younger, by the number of times he had been referred to by the other Jedi healers. The Clairvoyant, they called him, with a roll of their eyes.

“So you’re a padawan learner?” she asked, sliding a few more patches of bacta in a bag for him to take on his way.

He rolled his eyes, with laughter rolling off his tongue. “Actually, I was knighted a few years back."

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that-”

He shook his head, silencing her. “Don’t worry about it. I’m older than I look."

And he was older than she had expected, but his youthfully wide eyes and smile had confused her. That, and the youthful rashness that had landed him under her care in the first place. But when she looked closer, seeing the darkness under his eyes and the weariness of his gaze, she understood. It was a strength that kept him bright-eyed, despite the weight of his clairvoyance probably keeping him awake for most hours of the night. From what she had heard, he was somewhat of a protege, consulting the Jedi fairly often for a force user of his level.

Catching her gaze, he gave her a cheeky grin. "But it will do me good when I reach Yoda’s age, yeah?”

She smiled, reaching for his hand. He relaxed, letting his hand rest under hers, taking in the strength of her power, cooling the space where the red burn shimmered.

“So how does one become a Jedi healer?” he asked, inspecting his hand.

She smirks. “How does one become a Jedi clairvoyant?”

“Most Jedi are clairvoyant.”

“Not like you. You're different. Word gets around."

He smirks, taking the bag she held out to him. "I would tell you my secret, but you'd regret asking. Sleep is a luxury most want to hold onto."

~.~

The way she looked at him, stunned by the light of his face and his narrowed eyes, it may be believed that she wanted to be by his side. She was frozen in her tracks, keeping her blue eyes focused on the figure standing in the light. And though bodies may manipulate, they both knew deep inside that they were staring at an old friend. She leaned in, feeling the raw familiarity of Cisco, just the same as he had always been. And he reached to her, his Jedi Healer Caitlin Snow, now a ghost of an old friend. They felt the shift of certainty. She was sure, but he was slow to let himself believe it.

“It was foretold that you would be here, Clairvoyant. Our long-awaited reunion has come at last.”

"I told you foresight was dangerous," he said, voice thick with emotion. And then he breathed shakily, letting his hand fall onto the hilt on his belt. “I’m glad I gave you something to look forward to.”

She closed her blade that was still hovering over young Nora, taking a step toward Cisco. “We don’t need to be enemies, Cisco. The Emperor will show you compassion if you supply the locations of the living Jedi.”

With a piercing gaze, his eyes were on fire with fuming hatred. “There are no Jedi left. You and your fellow inquisitors have seen to that.”

She smirked, feeling his conflict just as heavily as she used to in their youth. Then, knowing Cisco's weakness like the back of her hand, she turned back to Nora. “Perhaps this child will confess what you will not.”

She turned to face him, not missing the look of betrayal in his soulful eyes, flickering at her flippant regard for his padawan's life.

He shook his head repeatedly, putting his hands up in some sort of defense, denial screaming in his eyes.

“I was starting to believe I knew who you were, behind those cold eyes. But it's impossible. My friend could never be as vile and bitter as you.”

“Caitlin was weak," Khione said with bitterness on her lips. "So I destroyed her.”

He made a pained expression, tightening his lips, before huffing out a breath, letting his eyes grow cold with anger. “Then I will avenge her death.”

With rebuking eyes, hinting a smirk, she wagged her finger in front of him. "Revenge is not the Jedi way.”

And then, finally letting his hand find the hilt of his saber, he removed it, letting an ivory blade pierce the dim temple.

“I’m no Jedi.”

~.~

"What is it?" she asked, her attention drawn to his heavy eyes, like a storm of thoughts pulling him away from the roof he was sitting on.

He was different than she had expected. Though unique in their own right, Jedi had a certain level of predictability they had to maintain. This meant honoring the Jedi's ancient code, severing off attachments and keeping their eyes on the will of the force and maintaining the balance. It meant valuing peace over passion and considering death a great victory. They said possession was birthed from greed. They weren't to seek out violence. They were keepers of the peace, not soldiers.

Cisco cared very little for the code, making it no secret that he considered the strictness an impossible feat. He would argue that passion, with restraint, could be good. That the enjoyment of life or possession was not a fault. Sometimes war was necessary and denying love was just as deadly as hatred. He said that perhaps the balance the Jedi valued so dearly was misinterpreted. That the code was one of the extremes while the darkness was the other, and not maintaining a balance of both could lead to a loss on both ends.

He was free in that way. He didn't fear to tell her what he truly thought of these things.

Today though, he had a weight in his eyes that she couldn't pull with her lighthearted comments. When he smiled at her, it didn't meet his eyes. But he would tightly grin, keeping his eyes trained on the senate building just a bit off.

"Tell me what's wrong," she said, letting her legs dangle over the side of the roof.

"A feeling," was all he said, flicking his eyes away from the building and back to his friend. "A disturbance."

"A disturbance?" she asked, biting her lip. "That must be really bad. Not the usual bad vibe as you normally put it?"

"A disturbance," he confirmed, grimly wrapping his cloak tighter around his body to shield him from a gust of wind.

"Something coming for the Jedi?"

"Not for. Within, I think."

He looked much like a child, wrapped up in his large brown cloak and tied tight with his knees brought close to his chest.

His views on the Jedi were becoming more hostile as time passed. She wondered if it was just intuition or if his visions brought this about. Caitlin didn't doubt the Jedi's benevolence, but she wondered if maybe she should. If maybe his words held truth, being that he had an insight that she never could obtain. Being a healer, she had very few visions of the future. It had been many years since she could recall anything of the sort. But Cisco was entranced in them. If Cisco saw something, she knew to believe it.

"Your views on the Jedi have changed."

He sighed, brushing his hand over his tied-back hair. “Sometimes I think they’re taking advantage of my power. Like it's all to win their war and if I am damned because of it they wouldn’t care.”

"War has a price,” she said, understanding. "They see you as a valuable asset. Do you really think their intentions are that vile?"

“No, not vile. And you see, I’m not afraid to make the sacrifice, I’m just afraid they won’t give me a choice. Sometimes the visions are a lot and well, it..hurts.”

This came as no surprise. Many times she had seen him doubled over, clenching his teeth, gasping at the touch of an object, trembling as he sat, terrified. The injury only furthered his pain.

“They shouldn’t expect you to hold the entire weight of the galaxy on your shoulders.”

“But they know I’m willing to do it.”

They sit in silence for a bit and then he speaks up.

“What about you? You’ve been distant.”

She narrowed her eyes away from him, afraid at the thought of being found out. “It’s nothing. Not something I should let get to me.”

Cisco laughed, giving her a knowing expression. “Ronnie Raymond.”

“What?” she asked in shock. “How did you know?”

“You’re not very discrete, Cait. I've seen the way you look at him.”

She leaned her head back on the wall, closing her eyes. “I need to let him go.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she echoed as if to mock him. “Because it's my duty to honor the code. I can’t be in love. It isn’t my right.”

“It’s everyone’s right,” he said softly. “They can’t just control things like that.”

“It's for the best.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Have you ever thought the Jedi might be wrong?”

“Wrong or not, I could be expelled.”

“Love might be worth it.”

She paused, looking at Cisco with an incredulous gaze, marveling at the stark comparison between him and the other Jedi. He said things as he saw them. The other Jedi were more careful, not wanting to be seen as disrespectful to the old ways.

“Have you ever been in love, Cisco?” she asked, wondering where these strong opinions were born.

He looked up at her, his cheeks warming as if a secret flashed through his avoidant eyes. “Not yet.”

“But you’d do it? Leave the order for love?”

He didn't give her time to wonder. “Without question.”

She laughed, shaking her head at her friend, being classic Cisco Ramon. “You really are one of a kind.”

~.~

Cisco stood there with his blade extended forward, his feet planted firmly into the ground as he waited for his opponent to move.

She followed his lead, with a flash of scarlet bursting in front of her face, reflecting on the glaze of her eyes.

The knot in his chest resulted in a fit of rage, with hatred clutching at his eyes, aiming at the monster that had infected Caitlin's warm heart. His fist clutched the sword, and he was moving forward, charging toward the demon, with every intent to destroy. He slammed his blade against her own, fighting with quick and furious strokes. After many violent swipes, Frost fell into a bow, holding her sabers up as Cisco attacked from above.

They circled each other, slamming the colors against each other, with red on white, fighting to get the upper hand in strength. And Caitlin, never being one for violence, now was relentless to take down Cisco, knowing he was her only remnant to the past.

~.~

She was sagging forward once she caught up with him, resting her forehead on his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat through his poncho. She couldn't dare to look up and see the decision in his eyes, confirming the fear that had been swimming in her thoughts since the bombing. He placed a thumb on her cheek, lifting her gaze to meet his, and her stomach twisted at the sight. It was Cisco, her Cisco, but he wasn't changing his mind.

"I know how much Ahsoka meant to you," she said.

"It's not about Ahsoka. It's about the Jedi. The Jedi, Caitlin. They betrayed her and I have to leave before I'm next."

She couldn't breathe. What had happened to Tano was awful. The accusations. The stripping of her title. The manhunt. Cisco had gotten close to her and Skywalker over the past year, coming back and telling Caitlin of the stories of their heroics. He said that they were what the Jedi should be. So the betrayal, that came so quickly with just a little bit of incriminating evidence, had shattered Cisco's perception of the Jedi. He would never be able to move on and Caitlin knew that.

But she was his best friend. She was the one he told his secrets too. One day had turned to years for them. Years that Caitlin would never give up. So it hurt in ways that she couldn't even explain to herself. She couldn't accept that he was turning his back on the Jedi Order. That he was turning his back on her.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said, hugging Caitlin tightly on the steps of the temple.

She didn’t say anything but she couldn’t stop the tear from sliding down her face. “Are you sure you have to go?”

He smiled, placing a hand on her arm. “I wish I didn’t, but I can’t live like this. Maybe nobody should.”

She just looked back at him, looking lost.

“You should come with me,” he said, resting his hand over her arm. “Then you could be free too. Be with Ronnie. Start a family as you’ve always wanted.”

It was as if she didn't have a say. Her voice was automatic. “I have a duty, Cisco.”

He looked disappointed but he nodded. He knew her after all.

“I know, Cait."

Then he swallowed, looking at the Temple with resolve in his expression. But then, a trace of fear lit his eyes and he reached into her heart with his gaze. He would reach out again. He had to.

"Please be careful. There is darkness in the order. I’ve sensed it for some time. They will fall."

"They can't. They won't," she said quickly, denying the sincerity in his eyes.

"I’d hate to see you fall with them.”

She couldn't worry. She couldn't believe a massive institution like the Jedi order could ever fall. So she ignored his words, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Will I see you again?”

He turned after a gentle nudge, with a light, hopeful smile. And then, facing the other direction, he looked back, nodding. “I have no doubt.”

And he was gone, being taken by the Jedi path and the dimming sunset.

~.~

They circled each other, eyes locked as their sabers met, passing silent messages through the sea of slashing light.

Cisco's steady eyes betrayed his failing heart, like shattered glass poking at his confidence, leaving him winded at the blur of Caitlin's hidden brown eyes. He should have said it, long ago, long before the Jedi got to her, and then Vader. Long before they replaced her hands meant to heal. Back before the light of day left her eyes and the setting suns took him off. He should have told her the truth, as he walked away, telling the real reason to her face. The real reason he wanted her to come with him.

I love you, his eyes whisper, though his hands were still moving. If he put down his blade, he knew despite his disbelief in Caitlin's distorted eyes, that she would kill him. Without hesitation. He knew, from his time on his own, just how powerful the darkness could be. And just how dangerous it was to let it thrive.

I never loved you, came a glimmer of narrowed eyes, as she pushed her saber, leading him to the walkway on the outer edge of the Sith temple.

At the turn, she paused, and for a moment he dared to hope that she might hesitate, standing there like a ghost with her icy hair and silky dark cloak. If not for the hum of the weapon in front of her eyes, she almost looked the same, in the way her lips curled and her body was postured. But as he dared to defuse his blade, taking a step back, her eyes flickered to silver, with gold bleeding through.

Suddenly, her eyes didn't recognize him anymore, and she did what she had to do. She looked at him and she saw a target. And she was strong, predicting most of his movements, countering them with quick precision.

Shocked by the edge of the path, he misses his step, tumbling downward with a simple strike, seeing nothing but her wide eyes watching him plummet into the darkness below.

~.~

He had always assumed she had been killed, much like the other Jedi had during Order 66. He had even hoped for it at times, knowing that there were fates far worse than death. If not the fate he possessed, in a constant state of running and hiding, then the worse was to be in the Empire's pocket. He had never in all his worst nightmares imagined that Caitlin would be one of them.

After reconnecting with Tano, he had found a place in the Rebel Alliance, going by the code name 'The Seer' for some time. He had served as a voice in broadcast, just an anon with drops of what was to come. Some came from his own foresight, and some came from intel gathered by other rebel cells. Talk over radio had pushed him to follow stories of a Death Star, an old Sith cult, and most interestingly, a mysterious woman that late-night tips called Killer Frost.

After a few years, he found himself in contact with a daring journalist by the name of Iris, later connecting with her husband Bartholomew. They came to him by the direction of Tano, with their young daughter, Nora Dawn, who was a Force-sensitive. She needed training. That was what finally drew Cisco out of hiding, willing to finally reveal himself as one of the last remaining Jedi. Whether that meant facing an entire fleet in the cockpit of an X-wing or revealing his ancient weapon to fight back against one of Vader's inquisitors.

He hadn't even considered that Cait, the healer who kept him company, could ever be one of them. Not until a particular mission alongside the West-Allen trio.

This one tie-fighter had been pursuing them relentlessly, predicting their every movement, keeping up despite the risky turns Cisco had taken. It was if this person could sense his movements before he would take them. As if they had some foresight of their own.

He couldn't deny that he felt something. He had spent a good part of his life constantly surrounded by other Force-sensitives so he could pick up on such things easily.

“The force is strong with them,” he says to himself, reaching out to feel their presence. He should have been more cautious, he supposed, reaching out to distinguish just how strong the user was. He hadn't been prepared for the onslaught of vague nostalgia or the eeriness of the cold presence. He hadn't expected to be submerged in ice-cold shivers. But despite the blaring pain, it felt familiar, as if he had felt this particular presence before. As if he had even known it with his whole heart. He couldn't keep up with his racing thoughts but his eyes went wide with recognition.

Just as the thought finally crossed his mind, like a cold hand clasping around his breathless throat, the words came pouring into his mind with her familiar lips.

“The clairvoyant lives.”

The strength of her power and the grip of her voice on his soul made him dizzy, as a gasp of incredulous denial bursts from his mouth. The wave of darkness clutched him, and he lost his grip on the ship's controls, slamming forward and passing out.

~.~

Cisco came to a few minutes after Khione tossed him back, squinting at the bright lights of the imploding temple. If Nora had listened, she would be removing the Holocron as they speak, as an attempt to make the foundations collapse on Khione as well as remove the power from their power-hungry enemy.

But with Khione in her vicinity, he feared what the corrupted woman could do to his overly ambitious young apprentice.

He had to keep moving, he told himself, stretching his aching legs and moving to climb the temple walls, with his vision focused on the wellbeing of Nora, and not his aching grief at the thought of Cait.

Maybe she was gone. Maybe he had to accept it.

* .

* '

* *

It was like an invisible hand was pulling on her, keeping her from exiting the temple. Much like the gentle, telekinetic pull of Cisco pulling her to safety, or even the generous push of the Force as she reached out to jump a long distance. But this, this was hardly gentle or generous. It was like she was trying to pull the skin from Nora's back, forcing her to slide backward, like a moth to a flame.

She closed her eyes, holding the Holocron tight in her grip as Khione pulled her closer, about to slice her through with her fiery saber. She almost accepted it, that the ship hovering in her line of view, the one brought to her rescue by her father, was just too far away from reach. That her master wasn't coming back. That Khione had gotten to him already.

But then, just as she let the monster pull her into that brush of death, a shriek came echoing through the walls of the temple, and a bright blade of silver struck through the back of Khione's cloak, leaving a string of fabric across the temple floor.

"Run," he said, pushing the ghost back as he came soaring over her, with fury slicing through them. He placed a pulsing hand on Nora's shoulder. "Run," he said again when she didn't move, with a growl in his throat. "Find Tano."

Nora stepped toward the exit, moving as he commanded, quickening her pace as Khione pulled herself from the glassy floor.

Struck by Cisco's determined eyes, she felt her body move toward the ship, like an invisible angel pulling her by the fabric of her clothes, lifting her to the safety of THE FLASH. The temple was falling in on itself, and Cisco had managed to throw her back, swiftly sliding her through just before the doors fell through with it.

Cisco had never looked like he did then. Not with such hatred. Not with such rage. Not even with even grief. He had been the one to warn her of the dangers of such emotions in the line of battle. How easy it could be for the darkness to take hold of emotions such as those.

She just stared, not aware of her father, Bartholemew, moving her to the confines of the ship, or the fiery debris that was hitting her face. Her concern was for her master, consumed by his own grief and pursued by the phantom behind the wall.

* '*

* *

"Wake up!" he pleaded, turning again to face Khione, trying to push aside the voice of Nora crying for his name on the other side of the wall. He walked toward her, now just a puddle of black robes and white hair blocking her face, trembling at his steps.

They said nothing, both listening to Nora, pleading for him to follow, repeating his name in a loop.

He couldn't help it. He looked to the door, sending a silent message to his padawan, telling her that things would work out. That the force would be with her. That Tano would be there to show her the way.

The voice stopped then, and he assumed Barry must have forced her into the ship, causing a great relief inside of Cisco. But then, as he took in the sound of silence, he heard his name again, but this time, coming through the layered voices of Khione, but unmistakably, within it all, he heard the voice of Caitlin Snow.

“Cisco?”

~.~

His brain had felt as if it was in a knot, with denial pounding at each wave of fear. The possibility that Caitlin Snow, the girl with the softest brown eyes, could somehow be on the side of the Empire, felt like a lie even when he spoke it. She just wasn't capable. She was always too kind. Too kind to hurt anyone. And even at a time of war, when keepers of the peace were asked to be soldiers, Caitlin hung back, using her power to tend to the wounded rather than fighting at the frontlines.

All of it. The entire concept. The entire thought. The possibility that Caitlin Snow had somehow become evil was a possibility that he just could not accept.

But yet, he had felt her. Or at least, something like her. Something familiar. Something similar.

He had argued with himself, saying that it had been a test. That it was something replicated with the intention of making him confused in this way. That somehow, a mastermind had constructed it. That they had stolen the soul of Caitlin Snow and projected it somehow.

But it was foolish.

Deep down, he knew what he felt. He just couldn't admit that it was the truth.

Despite his denial, he wasn't able to rest until he found the truth. So he went to Nora, leading her to a Jedi Temple revealed to him by one of Ahsoka's Holocron, promising Nora a lesson in the depths of the ancient structure. They entered as a pair, using the Force to access the door, and then waited together, until Nora heard a voice that Cisco could not.

It was then that Cisco had to wait in the shadows, opening himself to the possibility of the cold truth. Shedding his figurative armor. Letting himself feel for the first time since the dark thought crossed his mind.

And for quite some time, nothing happened. It was just him, the walls around him, and the cool rock against his bare feet. He could feel his own breath as he sat there, rupturing like a volcanic element deep within his ribcage. It was a fire he hadn't tasted since the heart of the Clone Wars, and it felt like rage and hunger and hatred and death. But it was all that he was for a few moments, as the fight between the light and the darkness circled like a duel inside of him.

He puffed out some air, unclenching his teeth, with his vision on the light.

He had to let it go.

It was the only way the Force would give him an answer.

And then, as he slowly released his fear, breathing out the hatred, and clinging to the light of compassion, he leaned in, and The Force was with him.

The silence moved away.

He waited.

And then, a voice. "Cisco?" it asked in a ghostly soft tone, coming from behind him, like a gentle balm against his aching chest. He searched the area, trying to locate her, wondering if it had even been a voice at all or if he might have misheard it.

But then, again. "Cisco?" it asked, stronger, and he couldn't deny it. It was her. It was Jedi Healer Caitlin Snow. His best friend. His loyal companion. His hidden soulmate, that he had hidden from even himself. Her, whispering like a lover in his ear, tearing away at his fear.

"Cait," he whispered softly, eyes arching upward with burning recognition, as his eyes blur over at his pounding heart.

The softness fluttered and a broken murmur replaced it, and she asked, “Why did you leave?”

He can feel her eyes behind him, burning holes through the fabric of his tunic, hovering over him with accusation. Shattered, her voice asked a question. “Where were you when I needed you?”

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't answer. But his mouth was open, speaking to the phantom voice. “I made a choice, Cait. I couldn’t stay.”

“You were selfish," it broke through, pounding on his eardrum, now a mirage of distorted voices. Voices that belonged to Caitlin, but came from everywhere in the room.

“No Caitlin," he said quickly, feeling his throat go dry at her declaration. "No," he said, pushing hard at the word, demanding that the bodiless voice understand him. As if this wasn't a vision. As if this was the true Caitlin Snow looking him dead in the eyes.

“No Cisco!" her voice came violently, piercing the room. "You abandoned me! You failed me!”

His eyes were heavy, threatening tears. But he clenches his fist, keeping his trembling form from bursting at the seams.

She is right, he thought, pushing two fists into the floor, carrying the weight of his guilt.

“Do you know?” she asked, her voice changing to haunt him, with an echoey tone that talked over Caitlin's whisper. “Do you know what I have become?” the echo asks, with a malevolent triumph at the lift of her voice.

And then a cold wind, like a breath of the dead, covered his skin. Leaving him gasping and trembling. “No,” he says repeatedly, unable to comprehend or believe.

NO. NO. NO. NO.

NO.

Nooo.

No.

And then a roaring scream came from his throat as a tear finally slid down his cheek.

He turned to the voice, flinging his lightsaber toward its direction only to find darkness. Just an empty walkway and a set of stairs. Just looking at him. Just mocking his aching body.

And despite it all. Despite what he had just felt. Despite what he had just heard. Despite it all.

He tells himself that it can't be true.

~.~

Over and over, his answer was given to him.

Caitlin Snow was one of the same as Khione. Killer Frost, the legend passed on in the late night transmissions, was Caitlin Snow. Caitlin was Khione. Khione was Frost. Frost was..Caitlin. His dearest friend was an inquisitor. An inquisitor who he loved.

He knew this, deep down. He always had since the moment he felt her presence taunt him. But now, in the Sith temple, with his back to Frost, he finally heard her voice. Through the mouth of a monster. Her. Caitlin. Calling, asking him, his name, wondering just as he wondered about her if she was really looking at her friend in her memory.

"Cisco?" she asked, the voice suddenly clear as her own, not shredded by the overtone of Khione. Just her, with her own eyes, and her own heart, seeing, for the first time in so long.

Cisco spun to face her, his eyes large and hopeful, finally unable to deny the face that he is looking at. And as he saw her, peering back at him through her icy eyes, transformed by the white of her hair and the paleness of her face, he couldn't do it. He couldn't be angry. He couldn't hold onto the fury. And it passed, melting away as he stepped closer.

“Caitlin.”

“Cisco,” she said again, softer.

“Caitlin,” he forced, with realization in his voice, and tears swelling in his eyes.

She was still gripping her weapon with clenched fingers, white with rage, but she was frozen. Her eyes did not leave him as she moved closer.

"I won't leave you," he said, extending a hand, reattaching his saber to his belt with the other. "Not this time. Never again."

She looked at him closely, her eyes betraying the frown of her lips. And as he watched her, moving forward with a gentle step, her eyes beginning to soften. And for a moment, but only a moment, her eyes were flooded with brown, as if Caitlin had been enough to turn off Khione.

But just as quickly as her eyes bled to brown, they slipped back into an icy glow and her face transformed. It looked as if it caused her pain, but she said the words anyway, switching her blade on and aiming it toward him.

“Then you will die.”

~.~

Time had once been simple. But not so simple that he hadn't fallen in love with her.

What had it been? Maybe he couldn't define it. Maybe he shouldn't be able to. Maybe he just did.

Or maybe it had been the two of them, existing beside one another.

Or maybe it had been more than that.

Maybe it was simple.

It had been Cisco meeting Caitlin in the center of the healers, being taunting by the others with their knowing gazes.

And it had been Caitlin pulling him to the roof, looking into his eyes for a sign of light despite everything.

And it had been Cisco, making up stories while Caitlin stared wistfully at a stary canvas.

And it had been Caitlin, kissing his cheek after he came back angry and torn.

But on one night, it had been Caitlin, pulling at the cotton of his cloak, wrapping her fingers around his shaky hands. She had leaned in, looking deep into his eyes with warm reflection. "I have something for you," she said.

"You know how the Jedi feel about possessions," he countered, with a smirk peeking out of his distress.

"Yes, but I also know how you feel about the Jedi and their code."

He laughed, eyes sparkling at her words. "So what is it?"

"Close your eyes," she said softly, cheering at his compliance.

"Okay."

"Open your hand."

He reached forward, feeling the warmth of her touch as she pressed a cool object into his palm. He brushed the object, feeling its edges, clutching it to feel the shape of the rock.

"A kyber crystal?" he asked, eyes fluttering open to look at her.

She smiled, pointing down to his palm. "In its purest form. Perfectly clear."

He peered down, examining it closely.

"Not corrupted. Not tarnished. Neither made of darkness nor light. Just pure. Just The Force."

He lifted it, letting the sun reflect it, creating a wave of colorful light across the glistening sky.

"Like you," she said, closing his hand around it and pushing his fist to his own chest. "Just like you."

~.~

"Kill me if you must," he said, eyes burning through hers. "But I won't fight you, Caitlin."

"That's a mistake," she said, laughing at him. "Caitlin is dead."

He just shook his head, bringing himself to stand mere inches from the tip of her lightsaber, lingering there with certain eyes. He would never accept the lie from her mouth. "Not to me. Never to me."

About to protest, the ground crumbled beneath her feet, causing her to spiral backward behind a stream of falling rock.

"Your faith is misguided, my friend," she sneered, coughing as more of the foundation fell around them. "You need to let me go."

He just shook his head, tearing his saber from his waist and tossing it to the side. "Don't ask me to do that."

"Let me go, Cisco," she said again, stepping forward through the rubble, her eyes growing more intense.

He knew deep inside that this was the end.

And as he met her eyes, he could see Caitlin, trying to save him from the monster that was standing before him. Caitlin, reaching out to him as the floor folded in on itself. And in his backtrack of footsteps, he missed the falling ceiling, and the outstretched hand as the darkness clouded his eyes.

She hated him.

She had to.

It was her duty as an ally to Vader.

Killing Cisco was simple, wasn't it?

Despite the goal given to her by her master and the cold rage in her stomach, she found herself panic at the danger above her enemy. It caused her to stumble, with confusion aching in her mind, as something told her that she was forgetting something. Something immensely important. Her fury subsided as she glanced at him, and her blood ran cold, with the realization that Cisco may truly die at her hand.

And the startling fear brought her forward.

She dropped her weapon into the melting rock and reached forward, taming the fall of the upper levels, moving her hands to seal the cracks. She accessed the ancient power of Khione and birthed rage, bursting forth with shimmery icicles to frame them both. She had landed over him, spooning him in her silky cloak and covering him with her exposed arms.

She couldn't feel the rocks striking her as she focused on the frozen dome she was building over them. She couldn't feel anything at all. She just knew what her body was trained to do since the moment she met Cisco Ramon. And that was, without question, to save him from harm. To cure him. To heal his injury.

She forgot what she was supposed to be doing.

Keeping her arms wrapped over him like protective armor, she held him tight as the temple collapsed above, sinking into his warmth.

And she closed her eyes, attempting to pull her mind away from the sense that she was home.

When everything finally stopped, she pulled away from him, catching her wrist on the chain around his neck, losing her breath at the shock. She held it, the pure kyber crystal, in the palm of her hand. She felt the edge of it with her thumb, attempting to swallow back the way it had felt in his hand, warm and calloused on that temple roof. And for a moment as she stared at him blankly, a feeling swelled deep in her chest, and she remembered him.

All of him.

His heart. His mind. His love.

And she dared to look his way, gasping at the twitching of his lips.

She dropped the chain, letting the crystal fall to his chest.

His eyes fluttered open and he looked up at her. "Cait, is that you?"

She was still close to him, just hovering over him without movement. At his kind gaze, her eyes bled warm for a moment and she pressed a kiss to his forehead. Then she lifted his hand, just as she had long ago, pressing her fingers to the broken skin in an attempt to heal him.

He smiled, gazing up at her, locking his eyes to hers.

"Please," she said, begging him with her eyes. "Please don't chase me. Please don't force me. Don't make me kill you."

He swallowed, eyes stinging from tears.

"Please, let me go, sweet Cisco."

He couldn't nod. He couldn't ever promise something like that.

She rose at his reluctant stare, turning to leave him. Knowing her hands were not Caitlin's anymore. Knowing her heart was frozen for too long to love him. They had killed Caitlin Snow during the fall. Cisco had been right to warn her, but she didn't listen to him. So this was her penance. This was the price she had to pay. This was the thing she had to lose.

And she had to leave him alone. Hate him to save him. Hate him enough to not chase him. Because if she loved him, she would go after him. And if she went after him, she knew she may kill him.

It was mercy.

But still, she whispered, trembling as Khione took her form, "Please, strong darkness, allow me to let him go."

#Killervibe #Cisco Ramon #Caitlin Snow #Killer Frost #Star Wars AU #westallen #nora west allen #Ahsoka Tano #Anakin Skywalker #Star Wars

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yogaposesfortwo · 4 years

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The Yamas Explained - 8 Limb Path

The Foundation of Yoga When we mention yoga as asana (postures), we are only pertaining to one among 8 Limbs of Yoga. There are 7 other foundational pillars that structure the 8-fold-path and if we only specialise in the postures, we are ignoring 90% of the practice. within the Yoga Sutras, Patanjali states that every of the 8 limbs is adequate to the others and necessary. Yoga philosophy can sometimes feel very daunting and heavy, it’s tons to digest. thereupon being said, i would like to present this during a way that you’ll be ready to absorb and apply this to your life, so we'll take this step by step, one limb at a time. This will be first during a series of 8. Today we'll discuss the primary of 8 limbs: Yama. What are the YAMAS? The word yama translates to “restraints”. they're what Patanjali calls, the good Vows, a system of living. “The great vows are universal, not limited by class, place, time, or circumstance.” they're essentially guidelines asking us to be reasonable and decent to others. They are ethical disciplines that teach us the way to show up within the world and not be an asshole. Non-violenceTruthNon-stealingNon-excessNon-possessiveness AHIMSA – Non-violence II.35 “In the presence of 1 firmly established in non-violence, all hostilities cease.” There are obvious sorts of violence which will be easily understood like killing or physically harming another person or living being. We are taught from a young age to not harm others, but Ahimsa goes beyond just physical violence. It means “to do no harm”, which applies to others, ourselves, and therefore the world around us. It applies physically, mentally, and emotionally. Non-violence stands at the very core and foundation of yoga philosophy and practice. Non-violence shows up in some ways . one among the most important ways it shows up on behalf of me is that the way I ask myself. The negative self-talk that shows up once I look within the mirror and feel bloated, once I don’t like what my hair is doing, once I desire I’m not ok . this is often once I need to practice Ahimsa. If we would like to march through this life pityingly and act from an area of affection towards others, it's to start out with ourselves. Learning the way to move through lifestyle , and therefore the challenges we all face, is how we grow our capacity to be non-violent. When we practice Ahimsa continuously in our thoughts, words, and actions, our entire personality brings out those vibrations and from our core, we will act from an area of affection . SATYA – Truthfulness II.36 “To one established in truthfulness, actions and their results become subservient.” What Patanjali says about Satya is essentially that whatever you speak is your truth. This sutra doesn’t necessarily always ask telling the reality , it’s deeper than that. He says “ If a curse is spoken, it'll happen. If a blessing is spoken, it'll happen.” It’s an encouragement to steer an open life, to be more honest with ourselves so we will live a life that aligns truthfully to our values. This means standing in our truth and not telling little white lies, albeit it it makes us uncomfortable. It doesn’t mean be so truthful that you simply will hurt another person. We are to talk the reality when true, as long as it’s kind and necessary. If it’s not kind or necessary, then just don’t say it. We’re not meant to cover behind our niceness, we also are not meant to harm another with our words (ahimsa). There’s that quote from the bible “The truth will set you free”, and consistent with the yoga bible (The Yoga Sutras), John was right! Truth has the facility to free us from sorrow and fears. If we all know our truth and follow our integrity we will be more confident in deciding , and in our relationships with ourselves and with others. For me, finding my truth means really digging deep into Hell of my soul and excavating my core values. It’s not a simple task, but once we do that quite work, it’s extremely rewarding. Lately I’ve been practicing Satya by being more conscious of the lies I tell myself. My lies range from “you’re not good enough” all the thanks to “you’re better than them”. I also mislead myself about about time and money, creating an inner dialogue that creates me think there’s never enough. this is often a lie. When I’m ready to distinguish the difference between what are my truths and what are my lies, my life is far more peaceful. I’m a nicer person to myself and to others (again Ahimsa), and overall I feel more grounded. Trusting myself is one among the foremost valuable tools yoga has taught me. ASTEYA – Non-stealing II.37 “To one established in non-stealing, all wealth comes.” Patanjali says, “the richest person within the world is that the one with a cool mind, free from tension and anxiety.” He’s not just simply talking about stealing material possessions from others. We steal in numerous ways in which won't be obvious. Stealing can are available the shape of stealing other people’s ideas, or other people’s time. We steal from the world , we steal from ourselves, we steal from our own opportunity to grow. Let’s use the instance of stealing someone else’s excitement or sadness. I even have a lover who we’ll just call Susan. Any time I’m with Susan and I’m telling her about something exciting that’s happening in my life, or something that I’m sad about, Susan always finds how to show the conversation back on herself. this is often an enormous sort of stealing. once we compare ourselves to others or pipe in with our own stories when someone is else telling us their story, we are, albeit it’s subconscious, boosting our own ego’s and not being present for them. For all you yoga teachers out there, the thought of stealing time may be a big one. It’s important to honor time in order that you’re not stealing it from your students. People have places to be. We must consider it as our practice of Asteya. It’s not fair for you to consistently run 5 or 10 minutes over, that's not some time to require . If you’re getting to borrow ideas from other teachers, give credit where credit is due. Did any folks “make up” yoga? No! can we get inspired by other teacher’s sequencing? Of course! albeit they didn’t structure the pose, if you learned something from somebody else and you’re applying it to your class, honor your teachers and acknowledge them. This is true for timeliness generally . Practice non-stealing by exposure on time to a coffee date or dinner with the women . Honor each other’s time and your own, and remember of once you are taking over an excessive amount of of somebody else’s. BRAHMACHARYA – Non-excess II.38 “By one established in continence, vigor is gained.” All things carefully . The fourth yama asks us to use moderation in our lifestyle, and with our energy. this suggests that when our bodies are tired, we rest. And when we’ve been sitting on the couch for two days watching Netflix, we move. Essentially, Brahmacharya is about maintaining balance altogether senses by practicing moderation and consistency. Think for a flash about what’s sitting in boxes in your attic or within the basement or a storage unit. does one actually need these things? If you’re being honest, does one even know the contents of these boxes? once we have an excess amount of “stuff”, this is often described within the Sutras as overindulgence. It’s the things that you simply want, but you don’t actually need . In my experience, these things weighs us down and blocks us from reaching our greatest potential. Getting obviate the unnecessary possessions frees up space in our minds and in our lives. It creates a way of liberation and vitality. This also applies to an asana practice. once you do a pose because simply because you'll or simply because you see others around you doing it, but you don’t really need to try to to it, this is often practicing in excess. simply because you'll doesn’t always mean you ought to . It’s important that we concentrate to our bodies once we are on our mats so we will listen and concentrate to what we really need vs. what we would like . this stuff feel similar but if we take a better look, they're very different. And if we will lookout of our basic needs, the requirements subsided and fewer valuable. APARIGRAHA – Non-possessiveness II.39 “When non-greed is confirmed, a radical illumination of the how and why of one’s birth comes.” The 5th and final Yama, Aparigraha, means non-greed, non-possessiveness, or non-hoarding. It also can mean non-clinging, non-grasping, and non-coveting. Another to thanks to check out this, is having the ability to “let go”. Whatever we possess, possesses us. We can abandoning in some ways , like letting go of our attachments to identities, or to our favourite clothes. Without realizing it, we walk around in life, attaching ourselves to identities or roles (mom, doctor, yogi, vegan, etc) and that we allow them to define us. this is often where we get in trouble. What happens if we allow our external environments to impact our belief about who we are? for instance , let’s say you let your job title define you, otherwise you deeply identify together with your romantic relationship, then you get fired or your spouse dumps you. You then also lose your sense of self. you're then liable for your own pain and sadness. This Yama is about releasing attachment to people , to substances, to the will to realize success as sort of validation from others. As we cultivate a way of simplicity in our lives, we start to honor ourselves on a way deeper level. Taking It beat The Yamas are our basic restraints. Read them, and skim them again. Soak it up and let it sink in. These points are something to review and live by throughout a whole lifetime. Revisit them however often you would like to and begin applying these principles to your life, and the way you show up within the world. Allow them to require form, and witness the evolution of your own being. Author: Nicole Gheorghe Source: https://dopeyogi.com/the-yamas/ Discover more info about Yoga Poses for Two People here: Yoga Poses for Two Read the full article

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Out of the Abyss, Chapter 15

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14 / Chapter 15: Housekeeping

After years in exile, ex-Jedi General, Eden Valen (now going by Vale) continues to clean up after Revan and Malak’s mess of a war, only to find herself forever cursed with their unfinished business. As an ill-fated lead brings her to Tatooine, Eden finds that Revan’s mysterious plans go beyond the Republic, beyond the Outer Rim, and into the utter unknown. (A novelization of The Sith Lords and beyond)

Chapter Summary: As a secret Jedi agenda catches up with those who remain, the situation on Nespis VIII reaches new heights.

3951 BBY, Nespis VIII, Jedi Academy Mical

Mical had been here for three days. Day one, he scouted the ruins. Day two, he was apprehended. Day three, he was apprehended - again. And now, he was sitting in a room, bound again and more intensely than before, alongside the stranger and his previous captor. The white-haired woman remained silent, her eyes seething. The man at her side, however, was calm, curious if anything. A twinkle in his eye told Mical he was just as surprised by their capture, or re-capture if that meant anything, and appeared to be far more interested in where this was going than in finding a way out of it.

There was something oddly familiar about the man called and not called Wyland Rhell. And Mical wanted to find out what.

Mical knew the man was lying from the moment he arrived, jostled uncouthly as he was ushered to the seat across from him in the remains of the Jedi archive. It wasn’t unusual, in this line of work. Mical regularly lied his way into places he may not have otherwise been allowed, but he had his easy smile and pleasant demeanor to thank for that as well. His disposition was always genuine, despite the lies, but it was a necessary measure when it came to recovering what he could of the fast-disappearing Jedi. The man beside him, however, Mical wasn’t sure of. At least not when it came to his ultimate goal.

His cover story - an operative working to collect artifacts for the Golden Company - made sense. Interested only in credits and their wealthy connections, the shadowy syndicate of antique dealers often infiltrated places such as these if there was something of interest. With the Jedi all but gone, Jedi artifacts were easier to find and also easier to sell - who doesn’t want a part of a recently fallen ancient religious order?

The stranger’s story checked out until it didn’t, that is, and now Mical was itching for an answer.

It was clear that the Golden Company was holding them hostage now, not bothering with the false formalities the Echani had employed earlier or the man that sat beside them both now. But if Wyland Rhell was working for them, why was he here, bound by Mical’s side?

“Alright, now you three stay put, ye hear?” one of the mercs muttered as he fastened the Echani’s restraints, smirking as he spoke.

It was easy to tell he was Mandalorian, if not by his accent but by his profession and the means by which he bound them. Classic, Mical thought, trained to the last .

The knots he used, the weapons he brandished, even the armor he wore - none of it was Mandalorian, but it screamed Mandalorian just the same. A huddled mass of other faceless men and women waited beyond the door, ready to scour the area once they were secure, as the maskless merc made his way to each of them once more, testing their restraints and giving each of them a wink. When the man wasn’t looking, Mical rolled his eyes.

He didn’t flinch, nor did he scowl. Mical kept his face completely expressionless, pleasant if anything, which only seemed to infuriate the mercenary even more. He yanked harder than the others when he tested how tightly Mical’s wrists were bound, scowling as he moved away.

“We’ll break you yet, ye hear?”

Ye hear, he said it again. Part of Mical’s inner linguist began decoding the phrase, trying to see if he could place it with a specific clan, but the Echani spoke before he could reach any conclusions.

“You can’t do this,” Irena spat, eyes flashing, “You don’t have jurisdiction here. We can-”

“We don’t need jurisdiction,” the merc replied, shoving his rifle into the space between her shoulder blades as he passed, making for the head of the room - all the better to watch them, Mical presumed. “Credits trump everything, cuz. Get used to it.”

The Echani’s eyes were like fire, only the violet-blue of her irises almost blended in the whites of her eyes, making her look like something else entirely in the dim lighting.

“Didn’t the rest of your team already make off with most of the temple by now?” Mical heard himself say, hardly realizing he was speaking as he was thinking, adrenaline coursing his veins as his mind worked tenfold to read the situation and stay calm beside it, now eager to get an answer out of the Echani after hours of his own interrogation, “What else is there?”

“We haven’t found the-” she started, her breath in a rush, but Irena bit her tongue. Her eyes narrowed as her posture changed completely, her anger dissolving into a cool, steely calm as she turned to face the front of the room, holding herself as dignified as she could while still restrained. “It doesn’t matter, they’ll be coming soon.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Mical muttered, knowing there were only four, maybe five, other Echani in the wings. As for the Golden Company, he knew they were many, but for the man who was and wasn’t Wyland Rhell? Mical couldn’t be sure.

“They all secure?” a voice interrupted, a static piercing the momentary quiet. The merc plucked a comm from his belt and held it to his lips.

“Affirmative,” he said, keeping an eye on his captives as he spoke, “Send in Del-Nara when you’re ready.”

“Understood.”

“And you may want to keep an eye out for where these Echani have been storing their... bounty ,” he said, smiling eerily at Irena now, “They may have a cache of goods worth looking into.”

So the Echani were looking for something specific, and the Golden Company were as well. It would stand to reason they were both in search of the same thing, given that Irena alluded to a specific object of import and the merc referred to the current Echani inventory as more of a bonus than amain objective. Whatever it was, neither group had honed in on it yet, and apparently Wyland Rhell had the same idea - he watched the two curiously, eyeing each as they spoke, just as Mical was.

But Mical, too, was watching. He eyed the imposter from across the room, waiting for him to notice. He could tell Wyland felt his gaze on him, purposefully avoiding eye contact until the moment was right. And when their eyes met, Mical’s blood ran cold.

I know.

Wyland Rhell’s face remained emotionless, betraying nothing of the words Mical swore he heard in his head before turning to face the front of the room again. A woman entered, burly and brusque as she nodded at the already-present mercenary and proceeded to gag each of them in turn, swathing their mouths with a rough fabric that made Mical shudder. Irena only glared over the edge of the cloth on her face, the thing hastily tacked to her person and clearly getting in her eyes. But the stranger Wyland Rhell watched Mical as his mouth was bound, not breaking eye contact.

I know you know, Mical heard in his mind, as if the man before him were speaking, though he knew he was not. And I’m going to make you tell me.

3951 BBY, Nespis VIII, Dock Hostel Mission

“You’re a lot… taller than I remember,” Zayne said, trying to make conversation as Mission led him to the crew’s current room. He watched as she ascended the stairs, already dissolving into his usual charmingly awkward self.

“Well, that’s what happens when you grow up,” Mission joked, stroking one of her head tails, both of which had grown longer with age. “I’m not ten anymore.”

“Right, right, so I’m told,” Zayne chuckled gruffly. Mission looked at him sidelong and noticed that he still hadn’t managed to grow facial hair, or if he did he knew how to hide it well. It made him look younger than she knew he was, more like the version of him she’d remembered from Taris. He was much younger then, of course, but to a kid even teenagers seem like adults. It was odd, but even though she knew Zayne had matured, he still looked like the boyish, idealized version of him she’d had in her mind since she was a kid.

“So, let’s get a few things straight before we meet the others,” Mission said, changing gears. She couldn’t afford to be soft now, especially now that there was so much to keep track of and the news kept changing every damn day, “Who referred you to me, exactly?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Zayne started, slowing his pace. Mission slowed to match, knowing they were about to launch into the land of backstory.

“Oh, here we go,” she muttered under her breath. Zayne either didn’t hear her or decided to continue without comment.

“You were supposed to make a pickup in the Outer Rim Territories, right?”

Mission stopped in full now, pausing on the step ahead of Zayne, gazing down at him unsurely from her new vantage point.

“How do you know about that?” she asked, her question coming out in a breath.

“You see, I was supposed to make the drop off.”

“You’re heading the recovery operation? With Bastila?”

“The one and only,” Zayne confirmed, managing only to roll his eyes in the slightest. Mission laughed heartily despite herself, “But also… not exactly.”

Zayne watched her reaction carefully, but Mission was too confused and too self-aware to give him the satisfaction. He’d been waiting for this, knowing it might put a kink in things, or at least encite questions. She let her laugh die naturally on her face, letting it settle over her features as she waited for Zayne to speak, knowing she may not be so amused the more she learned.

“Please, do go on,” she implored, half-sarcastic, half-tired with all of this already. When she took this job, like any other she’d run lately, she was just in it for the credits and for the quick in-and-out, something to do so she and Big Z could feel useful without feeling bad about the law and all. Carth had at least been good about that. She liked knowing she was following Nevarra’s last orders, that she was getting something done, but she also didn’t like thinking about what that meant exactly, especially when it came to all the Jedi stuff. She knew it’d become important eventually, but she didn’t expect it to be now and she honestly didn’t want it to be ever. She wanted Nevarra to return in one piece, for the Jedi to be restored or whatever, and for everything to go back to normal… or at least plain stay they way they already were. With Zayne here, now, Mission was instantly brought back to Taris, when everything about life was a right mess - Zayne included. And it seemed not much had changed since then.

“My old master contacted me, asked me for my help,” Zayne said sheepishly, as if it meant anything to Mission, though she could tell it was probably something odd for him. “Being a non-Jedi myself and all, I wasn’t exactly prepared to get roped back into this mess.”

Zayne’s shoulders slumped as he went on, his resolve dissolving before her eyes as if he had something to answer for.

“But given what’s happened and-” Zayne looked away, swallowing hard, “I kind of have a bit of experience with it, actually.”

“With what, exactly?” Mission asked, careful to keep the guarded skepticism from her voice.

“Force-related stuff, objects not meant to be handled lightly.”

Mission and Zaalbar had only been trusted with their cargo because Bastila didn’t know of anyone else, save for the few Jedi she knew of. With the others in hiding, making any contact was sure to warrant the attention of whoever wanted to see the Jedi die out. Mission rarely ever had to deal with the cargo herself, only with the transport, and she wanted to keep it that way. She wanted to tell Zayne, but part of her knew it was no good. She was already in this mess and she’d have to see it through if she wanted to see herself out of it - if that was even an option, now. After trusting in Nevarra? After knowing Revan? Not likely.

Mission wondered if she really was too trusting for her own good. For a moment, she thought of Griff and how he’d laugh at her, reassuring… but there was nothing reassuring about that image.

“And how exactly did this friend of yours get pulled into the mess? He’s Republic, right?”

Now Zayne really looked guilty. His eyes darted around the cramped stairwell, anywhere than straight at Mission, before he nodded soberly.

“We met during the Mandalorian Wars. Mical was with the medic corps, a good guy. Our backgrounds were… similar. ” Zayne looked as if he might elaborate but quickly thought against it before continuing, “He’s always been a bit of a history buff, a nerd if you will. He’d found a few things during the war, either come across by soldiers he was tending to or found on scouting missions. Whenever Mical would find something, he’d comm me and I’d swing by, taking whatever it was and dropping it off with my old master, Lucien Draay. Before I was even a Jedi, he’d been collecting Force-related artifacts, particularly things that were… darker in nature. Things that weren’t safe if left out for just anyone to find. And lemme tell you, they found a lot of interesting stuff during the war.”

Mission’s skin grew cold, thinking of the package that General Valen now carried with her, of the stories that Orex told of where it had come from and where he had seen others like it.

“Mical had a funny feeling that it was more than just a coincidence, so he kept at it. He stayed in contact with Draay, working without me. I went and… did my own thing for a while. I hadn’t heard from any of them in so long and then… I get a call, from Master Draay. A relayed message, a warning, from before the conclave at Katarr - he may have even sent the damn thing while it was all happening-”

Zayne ran a nervous hand through his hair, almost shuddering at the thought of the massacre.

“Draay knew it was the end for the Jedi, but he knew their cache of dangerous objects needed to remain hidden, and that whatever else was left out in the galaxy needed to be found. He wasn’t sure who else hadn’t made it to conclave, save for me, for… obvious reasons, I guess. But he knew someone would need to contact this Bastila of yours, and continue his work, someone to keep up the drop-offs.”

“She sure ain’t my Bastila, but-” Mission laughed now, the pieces falling into place, “Well, I guess she is.”

For all her exasperating behavior, Mission figured she couldn’t have been more different than the stiff Jedi-in-hiding, but Bastila had also been a friend, a confidante, and after knowing someone like Revan those were hard to come by.

“Gir’s a character,” Zayne laughed, “We’d never have gotten along at the Academy, I’ll tell you that. But I’m not sure she knows who I am just yet…”

Mission cocked her head, curious, though she had a feeling she already knew the answer.

“Thing is, I’ve been following Draay’s orders, but I haven’t exactly… outed myself, you see? I have a feeling she knows I’m not Draay but that I can somehow be trusted. I’m not sure, exactly, but… does any of this make sense?”

Zayne sighed, suddenly out of breath, as his posture slumped against the railing beside them. Not much had changed, Mission was sure of that. Zayne was still the same old troublemaker, always explaining himself out of or into something.

“Well, sort of,” Mission said, crossing her arms over chest, “I get it though. Things are weird.”

Zayne looked relieved, though none too energetic about it, looking as if he might soon collapse into the nearest piece of furniture out of pure exhaustion once given the chance. Mission had a feeling more of the story would come out later, but there were still a few details she wanted to hammer out first.

“So this friend of yours, Mical?”

Zayne nodded and laughed, his voice hollow.

“Yeah, about that,” he began, adjusting his posture so he stood up straight again, “Turns out he’s working for another friend of mine. A veteran, you might’ve heard of him.”

Mission waited a beat, even though she knew what was coming next.

“Lemme guess, Admiral Carth Onasi,” she drawled once Zayne failed to respond. His eyes widened, suddenly alert now, but Mission waved him off.

“I’m no Jedi, but I see where this is going, just- just tell me about this friend of yours and why he needs our help so badly.”

“I said Mical’d been looking for stuff, right? He’d been working in intelligence since the war, got news of a rogue Jedi or something. So he came here. And he - well… my friend found something. So he called, and I came. Only… I was a bit too late.”

“I see,” Mission said, sighing again as she took to the stairs, climbing towards the room where the others were waiting, “Best get to it then.”

She could feel Zayne bubble with questions as he caught up beside her, taking two steps to her every one just to keep up now. Mission shook her head, knowing she’d have to call Bastila, knowing she’d have to sort this mess out, and knowing there’d probably be a firefight by the end of the day to show for it.

“We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

3951 BBY, Coruscant Carth

Carth hated Coruscant. Always had.

It wasn’t much different from many other places he’d been, Telos least of all. At least before the war.

He used to think it was because of that - the memories, the familiarity. But other planets, similar in their makeup and overall volume, had hardly irked him as much as this one had. No, it wasn’t that. Perhaps it was the new memories he had here and the mere fact that he associated the damn place and the now empty apartment he seemed to haunt rather than live in. Yeah, that was most likely it.

Carth thumbed through his personal datapad as the lift kept bringing him up and up and even further up, absently rereading reports as if new words might appear between the ones he’d already memorized - anything to keep his mind off the anxiety mounting in his chest. If the Republic didn’t have problems worth solving about every nanosecond, Carth was sure he would have already driven himself insane with worry and second-guessing, though his preoccupation with work probably wasn’t much healthier.

He was already at the end of his message log when the lift stopped, perching gracefully at the level he had keyed into the console what now felt like ages ago. Rain greeted him and his unsuspecting face. Blinking his damp welcome away, Carth pocketed his datapad and blended into the crowd as best he could. Hood drawn, as anyone with a desire to remain anonymous might, Carth was glad the rain masked any appearance of “trying too hard”. Carth was a soldier, he wasn’t trained to blend in and he had been told often enough that he didn’t know when to make himself quiet, small, and unnoticed – though he knew what they really meant was that he was incapable of keeping his opinions to himself. Well, that much was true, and any grumblings about the weather would at least go unnoticed for now and dismissed as “small talk”, thank the Maker.

As discussed, Carth made eye contact with no one, shuffled along with traffic, and ducked under the awning of a storefront, nodded at the cashier, and disappeared behind its many aisles. Once at the back of the store, he slipped through the service door and into a room full of other doors, each duller and more indiscriminate than the last. One of these doors was a closet, and within that closet was another, smaller, closet, and within that closet was another door, and beyond that door there was a lift. And waiting at the lift was Bastila Shan.

“We can’t keep meeting like this,” she sighed as he approached.

Carth paused, briefly considering making a joke but thinking the better of it.

“You’re telling me, sister,” he muttered, a smirk teasing his mouth though he chewed his lip to hide it.

Bastila watched him for a moment, her eyes rolling once the turn-of-phrase dawned on her. The lift doors opened and Bastila ushered him inside.

“So, what news?” she asked, staring straight ahead as she stood beside Carth.

Carth fidgeted with his datapad again, choosing to start from the beginning, to buy himself time.

“With another one of our ships missing, the closest Republic vessel we had was the Harbinger. We can’t afford to reroute it, not unless we want to garner suspicion. They’re set to arrive at Telos in a few days, five tops.”

“Five days?” Bastila reaffirmed sternly.

“It’s the closest Republic ship we have in the Outer Rim. We’ve already come up with a cover, and it isn’t even a ship for diplomatic transport, but it should all check out. It has so far.”

Carth had practically rehearsed this line all day, as if he needed to convince not only Bastila but himself as well.

“And with whom, exactly? The Republic?” Bastila snapped.

If Carth wasn’t already on edge, her shortness with him would have done it, and it took a lot for him to reign his own temperament in at the thought even now.

“Yes, with the Republic,” he replied, gritting his teeth as he tried to keep his cool, “As we discussed, we don’t know who may be watching us, but someone certainly is. We need to take every precaution we can. I’m practically lying to my own men. To myself, even.”

If he had any other choice, Carth would have been the one to extract the Exile from Tatooine. Hell, the mess there may not have even happened if he had. With news of her records’ release, he could have been there before the woman knew anything was amiss - or anyone else on that backwater planet, for that matter. But it wasn’t worth regretting now. Carth had faith in Mission and Zaalbar. He had no reason not to trust them. He knew they would not only understand his instructions but his position, as well. There was only so much he could tell them, and there was only so much they could work with. The pair had done well so far. The General was given new clothes, a backstory, and Republic clearance, and according to Mission her boarding had gone off without a hitch, its commanding officers none the wiser. Now, as long as the Harbinger made it to Telos without issue…

“I know , I know,” Bastila sighed after a few tense moments, the pair of them still waiting in complete darkness as the lift brought them down, down, down after Carth had already travelled what felt like the length of Coruscant to get up to their pre-arranged meeting place . “This mess has made liars out of all of us. Even I don’t technically exist.”

“I know,” Carth said, “We don’t know what Jedi are left, but for all we know whatever wiped them out at that conclave is also responsible for our missing ships. That’s two now, and several others delayed. They say the equipment’s faulty, and there’s talk of a black hole edging into the Outer Rim.”

Carth watched Bastila mull this information over silently, though he had a feeling what ran through her mind. Was there really a black hole in the far reaches of Republic space? Or was there something darker out there? Waiting?

Bastila sighed, wrapping her arms around herself.

“It’s just, just-“

“Everything?” Carth finished. It was inarticulate, but enough for the Jedi beside him to understand, apparently. She nodded, exasperated.

“There’s so much going on, so much I didn’t realize at first.”

“None of us realized. We got too comfortable,” Carth said, thinking of his empty apartment, his empty bed, and how full everything had felt before Nevarra left and became Revan again, or at least left to follow in the footsteps of her former self.

The lift doors opened, revealing another maze of halls and doors, a tangled web of old, abandoned offices Carth still hadn’t asked Bastila how she managed to hide. He was almost familiar with the route now, following the young Jedi to her personal workplace.

“Too comfortable,” Bastila said after a while, considering the words as she said them, slowly. “Too comfortable, indeed.”

An unsure look crossed her face as she opened the door, letting Carth inside before using the Force to close it at his back. Carth swung around, mildly surprised, and watched as the doors swiftly met in the center of the frame, sealing shut. Bastila wasn’t one to use her powers for frivolous things, closing perfectly functional doors being one of them.

When Carth turned back around, the office was lit but the walls were dark, hiding the academy beyond from view of the transparent glass that surrounded them. Bastila was already seated at the console on the far side of the room.

“So, what’s this other news you needed to tell me?” she said in a rushed almost-whisper, clearly as anxious as he was.

“Well, it’s not good,” Carth started, already apprehensive, still unbelieving.

“I gathered as much,” Bastila snapped.

Carth inhaled slowly and exhaled, commanding his body to release all the tension it held. His shoulders slumped slightly, but his body did not seem to want to take orders.

“They found her ship,” he said, his voice catching, chest tight. “ Our ship.”

Bastila blanched and turned towards him, her face going white.

“The Ebon Hawk?”

Carth nodded, collapsing into a couch on the opposite side of the room. Saying the words seemed to release everything. He dropped his datapad on the table in front of him, his hands rushing to nurse his temples.

“Where?” Bastila pressed, waiting patiently now. Her voice was softer, but she remained stern, trying to be strong for the both of them. Carth glanced up at her, thinking he could almost laugh. She was trying. She really was. Little did she know it only made him feel worse . He was a grown man for kriffing sake. And it’s not like he hadn’t lost someone before.

“In the Outer Rim. Peragus System.”

“Peragus?” Bastila asked, voice flat.

Carth nodded, “Not far from Telos.”

“Do you think she was on her way back? That she had found something? That maybe someone-?”

Bastila couldn’t bear to finish her thought, a concerned hand reaching for her mouth, as if to massage the words out of her but none came.

Carth shook his head.

“She wasn’t on board.”

“Not on-?“ Bastila started, stopping herself, already too wrought with questions to continue.

“They found an old woman in the med bay and a malfunctioning T3 unit in the cockpit.”

“T3,” Bastila repeated, hollow, almost wistful. “But this woman, was she Revan’s Master? The one Nevarra had gone looking for?”

Carth noticed how she distinguished the two – Revan and Nevarra – perhaps still guilty for what she and the Jedi had done. Or uncertain as to what repercussions their actions had, even now.

“Who knows, nothing came up on her. She seems to be in bad shape,” Carth answered, watching the young woman as he spoke.

Bastila did not make eye contact. Instead her gaze turned inward, her eyes fixating on a thought as she stood and began to pace the room.

“I forget how old Kae was when she was still at the Academy. I was still so young, but she could not have been that old,” she mused.

“You forget how unforgiving people can be when it comes to women and their age,” Carth reminded her, thinking of all the senior female officers still on the receiving end of undeserved flak and underestimation.

Bastila nodded, agreeing, but didn’t look at him.

“Where is the ship now?”

“I told the Harbinger crew to salvage it, to take in anyone on board,” Carth answered evenly despite the empty feeling in his chest.

“And they aren’t set to arrive at Telos for another five days at the most, I think I know the rest,” Bastila finished in a huff. She stopped pacing and fell back into the chair poised by her personal console, a hand still cradling her chin.

“She must have been returning, otherwise why would the Ebon Hawk be way out there?” she said after a minute’s pause and a moment’s thinking, “The last coordinates sent by T3 were from Tatooine, that’s a completely different sector.”

“Maybe that was the last time Nevarra was on the ship,” Carth offered, “Maybe she found her Master, maybe she-“

His ideas ended there, dissolving into a slew of endless what ifs he didn’t want to speak truth to .

“Perhaps,” Bastila sighed, “Where was the ship exactly?”

“That’s the other thing,” Carth said, leaning forward and watching Bastila for a moment before continuing. She locked eyes with him this time, unsure of what was about to escape his mouth, “It was found in a dead lock with a ghost ship. A Sith ship. From the Star Forge.”

“Sith,” Bastila echoed, her eyes going wide, “Sith.”

Carth could only nod. Neither of them spoke, but he had a feeling that the thoughts rushing through Bastila’s mind were not unlike the ones he’d already turned over in his head a thousand times. What if Nevarra had fallen back into Revan again? What if her old students found her after fleeing Republic Space?

“There’s no point in worrying,” Bastila said suddenly, the words tumbling out of her mouth in a rush, “We’re already doing all that we can, we’re being careful. There’s nothing we can do but wait.”

As annoyed as he wanted to be with her change of tone, Carth knew this was Bastila’s way of comforting herself, of comforting him. In her own way, at least.

They sat in silence, soaking it in, feeling the weight of it. Carth almost felt calmer, and he wondered if Bastila were somehow harnessing her Battle Meditation to ease their worry. It wouldn’t do to think irrationally, not now, not when they needed to be careful, not when they still knew nothing of the threat that loomed on the horizon if there even was one, not while they still didn’t know why Nevarra left or what happened to her.

“Bastila, I-“

“Carth, there’s something else.”

He blinked.

“Something… else?”

Bastila nodded, waiting for his reaction, though it never really came. Carth felt a bit numb already, not ready for more bad news.

“I only just heard of this an hour ago,” Bastila lead with, turning around now, giving Carth little confidence in what was to follow, “I think we might have a situation.”

“A situation?” Carth repeated. “You mean, other than what’s already going on?”

Bastila hastily tucked a temperamental lock of hair behind her ear several times as her console booted up, images forming on the screen as Carth stood up and watched on over her shoulder. A report manifested, complete with images and notes, detailing a Jedi academy on Nespis VIII.

“As you know, I had been keeping tabs on all the old academies, temples, and other Jedi headquarters since Katarr. Part of the Housekeeping Initiative-” she said, glancing at him momentarily before looking away, referring to Revan’s last orders, as if all of this already wasn’t a result of Nevarra’s final correspondence with the both of them, “There are other Jedi stationed all over the galaxy as you know, keeping watch, in hiding.”

“There’s an academy there?” Carth pointed to the screen, thinking it was no coincidence the Exile had just been there, and Mission and Zaalbar were still awaiting orders not too far away.

Bastila nodded.

“And it now appears to be under Echani jurisdiction. Their credentials check out.”

“Credentials?”

Bastila opened another file, a document of authorization appearing before them.

“It’s not so much a sanction, but they were granted rights by the station,” Bastila said, her voice stiff with dissatisfaction, “Without any formal Jedi to say otherwise, and with us all in hiding, they have the right to turn over the building to anyone with a claim to it.”

“And who would that be?”

Bastila shrugged, defeated.

“Does the Force tell you anything?”

Bastila rolled her eyes.

“That’s not how the Force works, Carth.”

“I know, I know, I was just - I don’t know - hoping it might be,” he admitted, turning away as he felt his face reddening. “I’ll have my people look into it. We should be able to recover any records at least, find out where this claim comes from.”

“I contacted what other Jedi I could, but there’s no knowing what others might be in hiding, ones we don’t know about,” Bastila continued, composing herself again, “And to be honest, I don’t blame them. With all that’s happened, anyone left may not know that others still remain, and looking for them could lead to trouble.”

“And I’m assuming the situation wouldn’t be much better if we did the same,” Carth mused, beginning to pace the area behind Bastila’s chair.

“Well, that’s precisely the thing…” Bastila began.

“That thing being?” he said, trying to coax an answer out of her.

“I’ve heard from one,” Bastila answered finally.

“What do you mean?”

“Mission contacted me,” she said, “Her message was coded-“

“Smart girl,” Carth muttered under his breath, still listening.

“She said a Jedi contacted her . A Jedi that knew you .”

“Me? Since when have I-?”

Carth almost caught himself saying Since when did have I had Jedi friends?- but saw the impatient look on Bastila’s face and thought the better of it.

“I take it you know this Zayne Carrick?”

Zayne Carrick.

The hair on Carth’s neck stood on end.

“Yes,” he said, the memories rushing back – a plucky stow away, just a boy, begging that Carth bring him to Admiral Saul Karath, who only wanted him for the murder of his fellow Jedi students. Carth had believed Zayne, there was something about the kid that made Carth think he wasn’t a murderer, no, couldn’t be. Then again, he had had similar thoughts about Karath as well as the man Carrick requested they contact, a man named Squint, a man Carth would later come to know as Darth Malak.

“Carth?”

Bastila’s voice brought him out of the past. He shook his head and steadied himself, focusing on her slate grey eyes as they watched him intently.

“I knew him, yes,” he affirmed, “What did he want? Was he in some sort of trouble?”

“He was looking for someone of yours, actually. A Republic Scout named Mical.”

Carth nodded, then shook his head.

“Part of Rell’s team, the girl we sent to pick up the Exile.”

Bastila’s eyes went wide for a moment, shaking her head along with Carth, not liking the sound of any of this the more each of them spoke. She swallowed slowly, watching for his reaction.

“Apparently this Zayne had been working with a colleague of mine, the very one whose artifacts Mission and Zaalbar have been transporting. One we lost at Katarr, I now realize. I’d hoped-”

Bastila paused, bringing a hand to her mouth to stifle whatever involuntary sound threatened to erupt at the thought of the incident. She shook her head again, willing the feeling away and looking Carth square in the eye again, keen on continuing.

“Odd, isn’t it?” Carth said after a moment, his voice betraying his suspicion, almost on purpose.

“That wasn’t all,” Bastila continued, darkly, ignoring Carth’s near-sarcasm but mirroring his thoughts in her expression, eyebrows raised as if to say of course this would happen, despite the uncertainty clearly blooming in both of their chests. “Aside from this Zayne’s connection to one of yours as well as one of mine, the last he’d heard of your Republic Scout, he was at this precise academy.”

“The… academy currently overrun by Echani?”

“The very one,” Bastila answered, “Now, what I can’t figure out is why the Echani of all people would be interested in the Jedi.”

“From what I remember the Echani don’t have a high regard for Jedi,” Carth said darkly, “Didn’t Revan ki-“

He stopped himself. Didn’t Revan kill one of their decorated generals? She had, and he knew it. But it still felt strange – remembering who she had been, what she had done, and wondering why.

Bastila watched him, aware of his inner dilemma, and Carth was sure she was thinking the same of her missing friend and mentor.

“His name was Yusanis,” she began, her eyes darting about as she mentally fit pieces of an unseen puzzle together, “Master Atris was to send our regards after the incident. I believe she was well-received, but again that was some time ago.”

“Atris is the woman who tracked the Exile, right?” Carth said, goosebumps spreading over his skin as the coincidences piled up.

“Indeed, and she was a renowned Jedi Historian.”

“And… dead, as I recall,” Carth tried to find a better word for it, but instead resorted to softening his voice as if it might sound more respectful despite his vocabulary failing him. Bastila glanced at him sidelong but didn’t press further on the issue, continuing only with the matter at hand.

“This is true, but,” Bastila paused, “The coincidences are certainly strange.”

“I don’t like this,” Carth said, “If you ask me there are too many of these damn coincidences.”

Bastila thought for a moment, her eyes faraway, before an uncharacteristic laugh erupted from her throat. Carth balked.

“Bastila, I don’t see-“

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, lowering herself into her chair again, “But perhaps you were right, for once.”

“Right? About what?”

“About the Force,” she continued, her laugh dissolving as she took a few measured breaths, “There are no such things as coincidences, there is only the Force."

#kotor 2 #star wars #carth onasi #bastila shan #mission vao #zayne carrick #fan fiction #my writing

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hotsuins · 7 years

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title: we definitely didn’t go down to georgia series: new danganronpa v3 summary: Drunk Shuichi tells Himiko to summon a demon and gets Sober Shuichi into a lot of trouble. notes: this is basically just a “oops i accidentally summoned a demon while drunk” au. sorry. happy halloween though. this can be read on ao3.

It all started with Shuichi deciding to go to a party. This was where the long chain of his poor decisions and mistakes began.

A week before Halloween, Akamatsu had called him and asked if he was free on that night. She was planning on having a party with some of her new friends and decided to invite their old high school classmates to come as well.

“It’d be nice to see you again, Saihara-kun,” she had said, and he could hear papers shuffling in the background and the occasional sound of a piano note ringing out. “It’s really been a while! We haven’t met up in ages!”

He hadn’t actually seen much of any of his old classmates since graduation and they all went their separate ways. Shuichi was currently working on getting his degree in Criminal Justice and handling the cases that came his way and that kept him busy enough that he was unable to keep in contact with everyone.

Momota still called him occasionally, but they hadn’t met in person since he moved to Ibaraki to be close to the Tsukuba Space Center. Akamatsu herself was busy enough with piano recitals and her studies in music that they only texted each other perhaps once a month. Shuichi had missed them.

Therefore, when Akamatsu had asked him if he could come, he had said yes. That was his first mistake.

Attending a party was not normally something that was a problem for most people. Except for the fact that Shuichi was not exactly most people. He was not a good person to have at parties. He was, in fact, a fairly piss-poor one.

That aspect of himself is far from being intentional; despite the amount of personal growth he had made since meeting Akamatsu and Momota in high school, Shuichi had always been a quiet individual who sometimes struggled with having conversations with others.

He was fine with that though. Shuichi had grown confident in himself enough that he could assert himself while doing detective work. He believed in himself now. That was all he really needed.

Still, a majority of social situations were somewhat difficult for him. He was still not very good with crowds and had difficulty making casual conversations with his peers sometimes. It was always much easier for him to speak with people he knew from Hope’s Peak. So instead of dealing with conversation, Shuichi always drank at the very few parties he attended. No one would expect him to actually say something if he was in the middle of chugging alcohol after all.

It was not the best avoidance tactic he had in his repertoire, but it had always worked well enough for him. This, ultimately, was what led to his second mistake.

See, when he had arrived, no one he knew was there. Of course, Akamatsu was present and had waved when she saw him walk in, but she was in the middle of a conversation and Shuichi didn’t want to interrupt by walking over to her. Thus, he made a bee-line to the drinks immediately after someone had made eye contact with him and recognition had flashed across their face.

Logically he knew that he probably shouldn’t be consuming alcohol just to avoid making a fool out of himself because he would definitely do exactly that when drunk. He had heard enough stories about him drunk that let him know that both Drunk Shuichi and Tipsy Shuichi were general messes with no filter that Sober Shuichi did not trust. Shuichi had stared at the drink table and actually took a moment to reconsider his usual avoidance tactic.

These were Akamatsu’s friends and people she knew, after all. He didn’t want his attitude while drunk to end up reflecting badly on her just because he didn’t know how to talk to people.

But then someone had actually approached him and he thought, fuck it, and chugged down a beer in his panic. By the time that Akamatsu had found him again, his nerves and general anxiety had convinced him to down four drinks.

“Saihara-kun, are you… okay?” she asked, giving him and the empty bottles around him an uneasy look. “You haven’t been here for very long but, um, you’re kind of drinking a lot. I didn’t… really take you for a heavy drinker.”

Shuichi looked at her, and considered his reply. “No. I am not okay,” he had answered, and paused to down the rest of his drink. “I don’t think I’ve been okay in years. This is a nice party though, Akamatsu-san.”

Akamatsu only stared. Shuichi did not know what she was waiting for, but her eyes kept dropping to the bottle in his hand. Which logically meant...

“Would you like some, Akamatsu-san?” he decided to offer. He didn’t know why she was waiting for him to give her one; this was her party, after all.

She did not take the bottle. Instead, her face twisted in horror and she whispered, “oh no. I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Shuichi did not reply to that. He opened another bottle and kept drinking. Akamatsu looked as if she wanted to say something, but then Iruma had arrived in all her normal boisterous, loud, arrogant bluster and Shuichi slipped away while she was distracted.

He wanted another drink. After that, the rest of the night became a blur.

Tipsy Shuichi turned into Drunk Shuichi, who had no knowledge of the concept known as restraint and decided to climb the walls of drunkenness and tumbled into the wildness known as being completely blackout drunk. The very last thing that he remembered, was which the most important mistake that he had made that night, was the fact that Iruma and Yumeno had gotten into an argument about the existence of magic and he had stumbled in on them.

Drunk Shuichi didn’t remember what they had said exactly, but he definitely remembered what he said to the both of them to try and resolve their argument.

“Well, in order to confirm the existence of something and prove its validity, you must have evidence to back up the claim. So, the only way to prove that magic is real is to perform some and do something that only magic could possibly do.”

“What do you suggest then, Saihara?” Yumeno squinted at him. “Today’s a good night. I’m full on MP. I can do anything.”

Shuichi had stared her in the eyes and told her, “Let’s summon a demon.”

His recollection of the night had ended there. He had no idea what Yumeno and Iruma had said to that, or how it even went down. All Shuichi knew was that he had woke up at home, dressed in the previous night’s clothes and smelling faintly of soot and sage.

He closed his eyes and rolled over onto his back, groaning. The hangover hadn’t quite set in yet, but it was only a matter of time. When he had opened his eyes, there was a purple-haired man was leaning over him and watching him.

He blinked, rubbing at his eyes. The man smiled down at him, looking absolutely delighted.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” he crooned. “I thought you were going to sleep all day and leave little old me alone!”

Shuichi screamed bloody murder.

“So, you’re… a demon.”

“Mhm!” the man— Ouma Kokichi, he had introduced himself as— nodded as he raided Shuichi’s fridge. He had found one of Shuichi’s flan cups and immediately proceeded to grab a spoon to demolish it. Shuichi grimaced. That was the good, expensive ones too.

“More specifically,” he continued as he ate, “I’m the kind that makes deals. You know, pact with the devil and all. You sell your soul for a favor and I give you whatever it is that you want, blah, blah, blah. That kind of demon.”

God, Shuichi thought, what the fuck did Drunk Shuichi get himself into? “And, I… summoned you last night. That was a thing that actually happened.”

Ouma nodded. He was half-done with the first cup and was already reaching for another. “Yup. You and two other girls— a slutty-looking blonde with big tits and a tiny red-head with an ugly face. Your blood was used though, and you were much cuter than the both of them combined, so I picked you to be bound to.”

Shuichi looked down to the back of his hand, where there was a bright pink Hello Kitty band-aid covering up a cut he didn’t remember getting. He slumped over on the couch, leaning against the armrest, and dragged a hand down his face.

He didn’t actually believe that Ouma was a demon because there was no evidence proving that he was besides his words, but he also didn’t want to think that Ouma had just broken into his apartment, watched him sleep for an indeterminate amount of time, and ate his flan just for giggles.

“Okay,” he said, because he legitimately didn’t know what else to say in this situation. Demanding that Ouma prove himself to be a demon only seemed like it would be dangerous. “Alright. Is it, like, possible for you just to… simply leave?”

Ouma had frozen, spoon still sticking out of his mouth, and turned a wide, guileless gaze on him. “Y-you want me to leave?” he asked quietly as tears began to well up in his eyes, sniffling as a single tear began to roll down his cheek. “A-already? Really?”

“Yeah, kind of. I have work tomorrow.”

Ouma immediately stopped with the crocodile tears, rolling his eyes and he pulled the spoon out of his mouth to set it on the counter top despite Shuichi’s protest. “Nope, sorry, no can do. I told you, I’m the kind of demon that makes deals.”

“And you can only return after a deal has been made and fulfilled?” Shuichi reasoned with a grimace. This was just getting worse and worse.

“Bingo! Got it in one!” Ouma gave him a bright smile and laughed loudly. “I knew I liked you for a reason, Saihara-chan! I can’t leave until I have your soul, and I have to stick close to you. Even if I tried to leave you, I wouldn’t be able to.”

The noise made Shuichi’s head throb painfully. Urgh. The hangover was now apparently kicking in. His head feel like it was going to explode. He took in a deep breath. “You know that I really have no intention of selling my soul, right?”

Ouma shrugged. “I pretty much assumed, yeah. But what can a demon do, really? You summoned, I answered. I’m stuck on this plane until you decide to fulfill your end of the bargain. A contract like this is unbreakable even if I wanted to break it. Which I don’t. You’re pretty cute, Saihara-chan. I like you.”

Shuichi was unsure about how to feel about a demon complimenting him. He took in a deep breath, and did not acknowledge the fact that blood had redden his cheeks. “You don’t even know me.”

“You made a good impression on me,” Ouma claimed, with a smirk.

“I was blackout drunk. How on earth did I do that?”

“You looked right at me, having just crawled out of the pits of Hell to take someone’s soul and condemn them to eternal damnation, and asked me if all demons had purple hair and if my hair color was real.”

Shuichi choked and immediately paled. “Oh no. Did I really? Seriously?”

“Yup,” Ouma popped the ‘p’. “We don’t, by the way. I’m also completely 100% natural. We have hair colors that reflect our strengths; the warm colors like the reds and oranges are the weakest and the cool colors like the blues and purples are the strongest. So, in case you were wondering, you really lucked out summoning me.”

“Really?” That… kind of sounded like complete bullshit, but hey, what did Shuichi know about demonology. If the actual demon said so then, it had to be true—

“Nope! That was all a complete lie!”

Shuichi didn’t know what kind of face he had made at that moment, but it made Ouma burst into hysterical laughter. He sighed and rubbed at his temples, trying to soothe the pain in his head.

“So the first part about my initial reaction to you was a lie too, right? I didn’t actually ask about your hair color?”

“Oh, no,” Ouma said, nonchalantly checking his nails. “You really did. Your blonde friend told you that if you wanted to know so bad then you should check if the carpets match the drapes. You looked her in the eye and told her that going to a fabric store was pointless because they were all closed at night.”

Okay, that was definitely something Drunk Shuichi would say. He groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he muttered into his palms, wanting to die. “About past me and about what Iruma-san said. That was very inappropriate of her.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

Shuichi jumped, dropping his hands. Ouma was suddenly standing in front of him, with one knee on the armrest of the couch as he towered over Shuichi and penned him in. His scarf hung in front of Shuichi’s face and his crotch was too close to his face for Shuichi’s personal comfort levels.

“Um,” he said, practically having a heart attack. Ouma’s hand had reached out to caress his face gently, tilting Shuichi’s chin up towards him. Ouma had a very nice face, and very pretty purple eyes. “ Um. ”

“I told you, didn’t I? You’re cute, Saihara-chan, and I like you.” There was a sly smile on Ouma’s face as he began to lean down. “I really wouldn’t mind showing you if you really wanted to, you know.”

Shuichi stopped thinking and, instead, reacted.

He gave Ouma a hard shove, who yelped as he fell right on top of the coffee table and broke it in half, before he threw himself off the couch and onto the floor to get away. It was a very painful landing for the both of them.

Ouma groaned. “That was rude, Saihara-chan! I think I have splinters in my back now! What was that for?”

“Sorry,” Shuichi said into the hardwood flooring. He didn’t have the heart to get up and he was 70% he bruised his nose when he hit the ground. “I just, I don’t even know. I’m sorry.”

This co-living situation was apparently going to be very long and very hard for the both of them.

#oumasai #ndrv3 #new danganronpa v3 #ouma kokichi #saihara shuichi #writies

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author-ashlynn-james · 6 years

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The Gift of Hunger Chapter 1

Let me know if you would like to be tagged in future posts!

CW: Eating disorders

Getting diagnosed with an eating disorder was supposed to be this incredible event. I had it all planned out. I would faint dramatically in the middle of class and be rushed to the nurse who would call my mom down from whatever music class she was teaching at the time. I would deny anything was wrong but my frail, slender body would tell another story. My mom would cry as the paramedics came and stuck a j-tube into my nose and I’d be carried off to the hospital to begin my new life as a diagnosed anorexic. That’s how it always works in the books. Every trigger book I’ve read in the past few months about a naturally thin white girl developing her demon has a dramatic reveal. It’s always “I blacked out behind the wheel and crashed my car” or “I fainted at a track meet in front of the whole school.”

But that’s not what happened to me. The real story is boring as can be. I just went in to get my wisdom teeth out and the dentist noticed my salivary glands were swollen. This coupled with the five cavities I needed filled and the fact I’d dropped 30 pounds from my intake the previous month was enough for her to suggest to my mother there might be a problem. Mama confronted me. I lied. She can always tell when I’m lying. She took me to the doctor and some abnormal labs confirmed her suspicions. No tears, no j-tube, and worst of all, no anorexia. Just thinking about it makes me glare out the car window like the trees racing by are my arch nemesis. Not so lucky. My arch nemesis sits beside me in the driver’s seat.

“Your face is gonna freeze like that.”

I deepen my glare and turn my body further towards the window, crossing my arms tightly over my chest.

“Yes, please, ignore me more!”

“What do you want me to say, Mom?” I snap, my breath fogging the window. “ ‘thanks so much for sending me to therapy prison! I can’t wait to be force fed like a goose!’”

Mama is silent for a moment, probably considering her words. She does that a lot lately. Never used to. I think she’s afraid to set me off now that she knows how I’m dealing with my problems.

“I get that you’re mad,” she says carefully. “That is your right. But I’m trying to do what’s best for you. I don’t want my daughter to die of bulimia. I don’t think that’s such a terrible thing.”

Bulimia. Ugh. I hate that word. That’s what really pisses me off about this whole thing: I got caught too early. In the last six months, I’d lost enough weight to move my BMI from clinically obese to the healthy range but not enough to put me at underweight. My starting weight was too high and my history of binge eating gave me the loser’s diagnosis. The one you get when you don’t have the self-control to achieve perfection. I would have gotten there eventually! I can go days without eating; haven’t kept anything down in months. The number on the scale keeps dropping. But no. My mother just had to take me to the doctor and now that hideous word is down in my medical records.

We turn into a parking lot and pull into a handicap spot up front. A skyscraper looms over me, fifteen offices on fifteen different floors. Our destination--a place called Nourishing Success--is on the twelfth. I’d be excited for the exercise but there are no stairs. Of course there are no stairs. Mama opens her car door and steps out.

“You ready?” she asks as I slam my door shut.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course you do,” Mama says.

I give her a skeptical look as we walk towards the building.

“You’re choosing to be here, Ameliana, remember? It’s an empowerment program.”

A blast of air conditioning hits us as we step into the lobby and I bite down on my tongue to keep myself from telling Mama exactly how I feel about her empowerment program. My fists shake as we step into the elevator and I don’t look at her until we step out into a purple and blue hallway with “Nourishing Success” scrawled in yellow across the wall. I rub goosebumps off my arms. It’s freezing in here. Why would they make a place for people without insulation on their bodies freezing? We walk down the hall to a reception area and mama stumbles up to the secretary.

“Hello!” the receptionist says brightly. I hate her. She’s too blonde, too cheery. Doesn’t this bitch know where she is? “How can I help you?”

“My daughter is here for her first day.”

Mama gestures to me and I uncross my arms to give a sarcastic wave. Blondie is unfazed.

“Ah yes, what’s the name?” she asks.

“Ameliana Martinez,” says Mama.

“Of course, we’re expecting you,” the receptionist taps some keys on her keyboard. I wonder if her long, manicured nails make it hard to pick her nose. “I’ll just let Jessica know you’re here.”

Mama thanks her and we move to sit in the chairs scattered around the room. Mama groans as she sits down.

“I think it’s gonna rain,” she says, massaging her thighs.

Mama’s residual limbs bother her when the weather changes. She always says she’s a human barometer. Considering where we are, my empathy for her pain is limited.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, mama flipping through a time magazine from 2006, until another cheery blonde comes out of an office adjacent to us and sticks out her hand.

“Ameliana? Nice to see you again.”

Jessica did my intake interview last week. Apparently me insisting for 45 minutes I don’t need to be here had no effect.

“This must be your mother,” she says glancing at mama.

People usually assume Mama is my mom. We do look a lot a like; two tall brown girls with long dark hair look like they belong together. Even my hazel eyes look like they might have come from Mama’s green. But they didn’t. I’m adopted. I’m the product of a white, Italian woman and (we think) an African American man. Mama’s a second generation Puerto Rican Immigrant. The only clue that I’m black and not Latinx like Mama is my hair, which I usually straighten anyway so people can’t usually tell just by looking at me.

Mama stands up and shakes Jessica’s hand.

“Hi. Tia Martinez.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jessica says. She turns to me. “Are you ready, Ameliana?”

“Can’t wait,” I say with no attempt to move.

Mama raises her eyebrows at me. I sigh and get to my feet. The world tips slightly as I move. This at least makes me feel better. Still faint.

Mama leans in and hugs me. I don’t hug her back. My arms hang limply at my sides. This is the only defiance I’m allowed.

“I love you,” she says. I hum in acknowledgement. She pulls away and holds my face in her hands, her gaze piercing. “Please try.”

I say nothing. I’m not here to try. I don’t need to “recover”. I’m just here until I can choose not to be. That’s all I have to do; convince these people I’m doing my best without gaining any of the weight back.

Mama must see the defiance in my eyes because she sighs and drops her hands.

“I’ll pick you up afterwards, okay?”

“Okay.”

“She leaves and i turn to Jessica.

“Shall we step into my office?” she says brightly.

No.

“Sure.”

Jessica walks me back into the office she interviewed me in. I’m distracted for a moment by the view of the city out the window. Then, Jessica instructs me to sit down and I plop into a chair across from her desk. She slides a giant binder across the desk towards me.

“This is your handbook.”

I stare at her and she chuckles.

“We’re not going to go over the whole thing. I’m just here to go over the rules. But this thing has all the worksheets you’ll do in your time here.”

Oh boy. Homework.

“Right,” I say, taking it and flipping through. Jesus, how many rules are there?

Jessica opens to the front page and starts going oer regulations and guidelines. I zone out as she talks, only catching every other sentence. Most of it is common sense: Eat your meals in their entirety, no fitness trackers, no clothes that glorify your eating disorder. I think about raising some objections when she says no caffeine but decide it’s too much effort.

“Alright,” she says after a quarter of an hour of uninterrupted rambling. “Any questions?”

I shake my head.

“Good! So you’ll spend most of today getting to know your team. But for now, it’s about time for dinner and you have to meet the rest of the patients before then.

Dinner. The part I had been dreading the most. I hadn’t eaten in 20 hours. Hunger twists around my stomach like a cobra. I love it. I love being hungry. Hunger is a gift. It means restraint, self-control, perfection. I don’t want this feeling of strength and control to leave me. I want it to last until I faint. I’ve never fainted before but god do I want to. I want that pure expression of restriction. Fasting is elation. Starving is strength.

She stands and I follow, head spinning again as I move. Perfect. I pick up the binder and we head out of the office and down another hallway. Jessica hands me a small key which turns out to go to a locker we pass in the hall. I set the binder and my phone inside and turn to look around the lounge.

The patient lounge is packed with people, bodies bigger and smaller than mine, all organized into a circle on squishy armchairs and cheap couches. Most are my age but I spot some older women and even a guy who looks to be in his 20’s.

“You can take a seat anywhere,” Jessica tells me. I opt to stand off to the side because it burns more calories and I don’t like being the center of attention. A woman in her 30’s smiles and waves at me. I try to smile back but I think my face forms a grimace. She turns and addresses the group.

“Do we have a warm up question?”

She must be a therapist. Probably one of the general therapists who keep order and enforce the rules. The actually therapizing is for the primary therapists.

“What kind of shoe would you be!” someone shouts. A couple people laugh but the general therapist smiles and opens her arm as if to give all of us a warm hug.

“Okay. If you were a shoe, what kind of shoe would you be? Who wants to start?”

They go around the circle introducing themselves, saying their name, where they’re from, and what kind of shoe they’d be. I really can’t be bothered to pay attention. I take the time to closer assess the bodies surrounding me. Most of them are small, smaller than me even. But a couple are bigger. I breathe a sigh of relief. I was terrified I was going to be the fattest person here. I squint around the circle, counting everyone I think is bigger than me when my gaze falls on a pair of wide blue eyes and I freeze.

I know those eyes. I’ve seen them every day since I was ten. They belong to a girl my age with flawless, light skin and perfect red curls. CJ Green. Head cheerleader, beloved by all. No one at school had heard from her since she fainted at a pep rally before prom last year. CJ and I weren’t exactly in the same circles but even I knew that she had apparently vanished, not returned any texts or messages about what happened, shut out all her friends. There were rumors that she moved or even died.

Now I guess I know where she went.

She’s looking at me with panic all over her face. Does that mean she recognizes me? I didn’t think she even knew I existed. Could she really be aware that we go to the same school?

A girl nudges CJ. It’s her turn to speak. We’re so busy staring at each other, neither of us noticed the silence. CJ bites her lip and looks down at her lap.

“My name’s CJ. I’m from here. If I were a shoe, I’d be a flip-flop.”

Is she… is she intimidated by me? That’s ridiculous. As far as I know, she’s never even looked at me before. How is this happening right now?

We continue around the circle and finally it’s my turn. I shrug and say “I’m Ameliana, I’m from LA originally. If I were a shoe, I’d be a combat boot.”

The general therapist from before smiles at me and turns to address the group again.

“Do we have a volunteer to be Ameliana’s kitchen buddy?”

No one says anything for a moment. Then, CJ raises her hand.

“I’ll do it,” she says, softly.

Did I hear that right? CJ Green wants to help me? What universe am I in right now?

“Thank you, CJ,” the therapist says. “Let’s go over some rules.”

More of the same, no pockets, no negative food talk, remove all jackets before entering the dining room, but I’m not really listening. I’m staring at CJ. She’s looking pointedly away from me but I know she can feel my eyes on her. I can’t believe she’s here. I knew she was thin but I had no idea this was why.

Everyone around me stands up and moves toward the hallway that leads to the dining room. I fall into step at the edge of the crowd, expecting to make my way alone when CJ slides up to me.

“Hi,” she says timidly to her shoes. I’ve never seen her look shy before. Every time I’ve passed her in the halls, she’s oozing with confidence. I almost think this is another girl with the same face and name.

“Hey,” I say back. Everything about this situation is wrong. CJ and I might as well be from different planets. We don’t exist in the same universe, let alone the same eating disorder program. She doesn’t look at me, she doesn’t talk to me, she doesn’t know I exist. And yet here we are, her unable to look me in the eyes. I never realized before how short she is. I tower over her. That seems wrong too.

“So… I’m supposed to show you around the kitchen,” CJ says to the carpet as we walk.

“Okay.”

My cousin, Antonio, once sent me a really graphic sext complete with a photo by mistake. I couldn’t look him in the eye for a month. That was less awkward than this. The silence between us is thicker than spoiled cottage cheese. If I thought being here was going to be painful before, I was seriously underestimating the severity of the situation. Nothing could have prepared me for this.

We complete the death march to the dining room and CJ walks over to a round table in the middle of the room. I follow.

“It says on the board if we need a fruit and today we do,” she says.

I glance at the whiteboard by the entrance. It has the name of the meal written across the top with the broken down components beneath it.

Spaghetti and Meatballs

Startch: Spaghetti

Protein: Meatball

Fat: Sauce

Fruit: Yes!

Apparently it’s up to us to pick our fruit. I look back at the collection of apples, grapes and bananas on the table and pick what I know to be the lowest cal: a mandarin orange.

“You need two of those to count as a serving,” CJ says.

Of course I do. I pick up another one and glance at CJ. Her cheeks are red but she still looks perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to her before. She’s so small, so thin and beautiful. I would do anything to look like her.

“Your nametag will be set where you’re sitting. Right now it'll just be a piece of paper but I’ll make you a real one soon.”

“You’re making my nametag?”

I can’t help but ask. She’s doing something for me. It’s like if the queen of england shined a garbage man’s shoes.

“I’m your kitchen buddy,” she says as if that explains it.

I glance around the tables people are seating themselves at and find my name on a scrap of paper next to another general therapist. Her name tag says Carley. I take my seat beside her and she smiles at me. Everyone here smiles too much.

I look at the other name tags at the table and spot a purple one painted like the night sky that reads CJ. She’s seated on the therapist’s other side. I steal a glance at her plate. Everyone here has been given the same meal but some plates have glasses of a white, thick liquid beside them. CJ has one of these glasses. That must be the supplement drink they make us have if we don’t finish. The “Boost” I think Jessica called it. CJ probably has extra because she’s underweight. Lucky.

A therapist gets up and leads us in something called “mindfulness moment” where we sit and ground ourselves in the moment and think about why we’re doing this. CJ closes her eyes to focus but I can’t stop staring at her. I wonder what’s happening in her head? What could have convinced her that she needed to be here. She’s not sick, she’s an inspiration. I’d do anything for her control. I’d do anything for her waistline. I look down at the greasy trash on my plate. Back when I was still fat, I loved spaghetti and meatballs. Even now, the smell is calling to my taste buds. But I am strong. I will not allow a single piece of it to pass my lips. Hunger is a gift, I tell myself.

The meal starts and I watch CJ out of the corner of my eye the whole time. She plays with her food, and hardly eats anything. I can’t let her see me take a bite. I leave my fork beside my plate, untouched, occasionally sipping water and ignoring the therapist’s suggestions of a “table bite”. After 30 minutes the meal is over, whether you’ve cleaned your plate or not. We go around and “process”, stating how we felt about the atmosphere, how much of our meal we completed, disordered thoughts from 1-10, any behaviors we used, and how we are feeling. I get to go last because I’m new. I try not to roll my eyes as the other girls talk about feeling accomplished or defeated depending on how much they ate. I only perk up when it’s CJ’s turn.

“Atmosphere was stressful,” she says, staring at her mostly uneaten noodles. “I completed… maybe ten percent? Thoughts are at a ten. Behaviors were avoiding, playing, and restricting and I’m feeling scared, frustrated, angry and depressed.”

Carley writes down her answers and leans in to her.

“Do you want to check in after?” she asks softly.

CJ nods. I wonder what there is to check in about.

Now it’s my turn.

“Atmosphere was… fine. I completed zero percent. Thoughts are at… like a four. Behaviors were restricting and I’m feeling…,” I want to say annoyed but think better of it, “overwhelmed.”

Carley jots down my answers and grins at me.

“Good job,” she says. “You survived your first meal. Do you wanna Boost or use your grace period?”

Jessica mentioned this in her tirade: if meals are not completed, you must “Boost” your calories with a supplement drink. You’re given a three day grace period when you start where it won’t count against you.

“Pass,” I say.

“Alright,” she writes something else down and beams at us all. “Great job, guys.”

I glance around at my tablemates. Nobody looks like they feel like they did a great job. Only two people cleaned their plates. And they look the least happy of all. One girl holds her head in her hands, probably trying not to cry.

Carley gives the thumbs up to the other tables and fifty chairs screech as everyone gets to their feet. I throw out the garbage on my plate and deposit it in the bin. I pause for a moment, unsure what to do with myself. I decide to do what I always do when I feel out of place and head down the hall to the bathroom. I lock myself in a stall and sit down on the toilet, heart pounding with the effort of carrying me that distance. I’m proud of myself. I faced a food I used to have no control with and came out on top. I am strong. My stomach grumbles with approval.

I hear the bathroom door open but don’t think anything of it until someone raps on my stall door.

“Um… occupied,” I say.

“I know,” That’s CJ’s voice. “I’m just telling you you’re supposed to have a bathroom buddy when you’re on green level. Especially after meals.”

I stare at the figure visible in the crack between the stall door and the wall.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

There’s a silence in which I expect her to leave but she lingers. I think she’s waiting for me so I don’t get in trouble. That’s nice of her, I guess. I see her weight shifting in the crack.

“Can you... “ she says finally, “ can you not tell anyone at school I’m here?”

I’m so shocked I almost forget to breath. I stand up so fast my head spins and threatens to pull me to the ground as I unlatch the door to look at her.

“Who would I tell?” I ask with the most sincerity I’ve had since I got here.

She stares at me, blue eyes pleading. I sigh.

“Yeah, I won’t say anything. I promise.”

The fact that CJ Green views me as a threat to her reputation is the weirdest thing ever. It’s like an elephant running down the streets of New York; not exactly something you see every day. CJ exhales heavily and nods. Then, she forces a smile.

“Are you PHP?”

Clearly someone’s uncomfortable with silence.

“Am I what?”

“Partial Hospitalization Program. Are you here all day or just at night?”

“Oh. Just at night. They wanted me in the full day but my mom thought I’d be more receptive to treatment if I could still have a life outside of it.”

“Makes sense,” CJ says with a nod. “I’d kill to go back to school.”

Yeah, that’s weird. Who would prefer high school over anything? A silence falls and I move over to the mirror and fix my braids just for an excuse to stop looking at her. CJ clears her throat.

“I should get to group,” she says.

“Okay.”

She leaves. Wow, she’s awkward for a popular chick. I count to a hundred before leaving the room to ensure I won’t run into CJ again. I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be now so I flop down on a couch in the lounge and pull out my phone. I only have it for today, of course. Once I’m in program proper, I’ll have to turn it in during check in.

“Ameliana?”

I look up. A woman in a pantsuit stands over me with a bright smile on her face. Seriously, why is everyone here so smiley? She holds out her hand.

“I’m Dr. Baker. I’ll be your primary therapist.”

I stand up and slip my phone in my back pocket to shake her hand.

“Let’s head back. My office is right down here.”

She leads me to a small windowless room lined with diplomas. She sits in an armchair and gestures to the lumpy couch across from her. This is familiar in the worst way. I take a seat and cross my legs, looking anywhere but the shrink.

“How are you doing?” The doctor--I’ve already forgotten her name--asks.

“Fine.”

She must know I’m lying because she says “I know this isn’t where you want to be. It’s overwhelming at first.”

I stare at the bookshelf to her left, silent. I wonder if she’s actually read all those books or if she just displays them to look professional. Are there shrink office guidelines?

“You seem hesitant,” Dr. Whatever says.

“I glance at her for a moment before moving my gaze back to her black pumps.

“I don’t like shrinks.”

“Really?” she says with mild interest. “Why’s that?”

I exhale and look at the ceiling.

“Because nothing can be simple with you. You’re always making these huge leaps and everything I say gets twisted around into something else. I can't just be quiet; I have to be depressed. I can’t be mad; it has to be some rare mental illness. You can’t take anything I say for what it is.”

I glance back at the doc. She appraises me curiously, like I’m a diamond ring she’s only mildly interested in buying. I look at the floor.

“Do you have a lot of experience with therapists?” she asks.

“A ton. Which you know because you read my file.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see doc nod.

“I did read your file, yes.”

“Then it should be clear to you how much I don’t want to be here.”

“That has been relayed to me.”

Another silence falls and I count the purple dots on the carpet.

“This is an empowerment program, Ameliana. You can leave at any time. I wonder why you’re here if you truly don’t want to be.”

“My mom’s blackmailing me,” I say to the floor. “I’m still underage so she can force me into inpatient if she wants to. She just knows programs like this have better success rates.”

My hand goes to fiddle with the locket around my neck. I can feel Doc’s eyes on me but I don’t look up.

“Why do you think your mother wants you here so badly?” she asks, finally breaking the silence.

“Because god forbid I have my own thoughts.”

“Can you expand on that?”

I think about this for a moment.

“She doesn’t see me,” I say, still playing with my locket. “She never has. She’s never wanted to let me be myself and I’m sick of it.”

Doc ponders that.

“What I’m hearing,” she says slowly, “is your mother is overprotective. Is that accurate?”

“Extremely.”

“Why do you think that is?”

I look down at my locket, tracing the words scrawled across it in fancy cursive. Lil Sis.

“I think we both know why that is.”

The silence that falls over the office is different than the other ones, heavier. There is an elephant in the room, two ghosts sitting right on the desk next to us on either side of me that neither of us can look at. I stare at my locket, trying hard not to think about the day I got it, what she wants me to remember.

“Do you want to tell me more about that?” She asks finally.

“No.”

In my peripheral vision, I see her cock her head to the side.

“You know, it will be difficult for me to help you if you don’t talk to me, Ameliana.”

I scoff.

“Like I said, I don’t like shrinks and I don’t need help.

I feel her staring at me.

“Well, let’s put a pin in that,” she says. “We’re about out of time. Is there anything else before we wind down?”

I glance up at her.

“Are you gonna tell my mom I’m not talking?”

“Legally, I can’t tell your mother anything unless I have reason to believe you’ll hurt yourself or someone else. However, I must warn you, your insurance pays close attention to patients who don’t seem to be making an effort. If they don’t think we’re helping you, they’ll drop your coverage, which may indicate to your mother that you need a higher level of care.”

Perfect. Another thing to worry about. I take a deep breath and remind myself Mama can only force me to do this for a few more months. Just until my birthday. I just have to last until my birthday. Then I can do what I want.

Doc excuses me to the patient lounge. The rest of the evening is spent avoiding giving my life story to the rest of my team. My psychiatrist, a balding man with a pot belly, says he’ll probably put me on an antidepressant. As if I would take it. Those things cause weight gain. My dietician asks a bunch of questions about my food preferences and allergies. I consider lying about being vegan but I’m sure I won’t get away with it and it’s not worth the consequences if I’m caught. Mercifully, at 9 PM, they let me go back to the patient lounge where everyone else is waiting to check out. I spot CJ on a sofa, staring at her hands.

We go around the circle answering dumb questions about the day and expected evening: Milestone for the day, potential for using behaviors from 1 to 10, three goals we have for the night, and a mantra we can repeat to ourselves if we’re struggling. I scroll through Instagram until it’s my turn.

“Milestone will be leaving,” I say barely looking up from Lady Gaga’s latest update. “Potential is a ten. Goals for tonight are to do homework, text my boyfriend and sleep. My mantra is just a few months.”

“What can you do to limit some of that potential tonight?” the therapist leading checkout asks.

“Nothing I’m willing to try.”

I glance up from my phone. She looks almost like she pities me. Whatever. I know what I’m doing.

My phone buzzes and I look back down at the scree.

New Text from Josh <3

I click the message and read.

How’d it go?

I type a reply.

Totally pointless. Just a bunch of skinny bitches who think they’re sick. Please.

The “...” appears, disappears, and reappears as Josh considers his reply. I know he doesn't really know what to say. If I’m honest, he almost never knows what to say to me anymore. Things haven’t been great between us lately. I’m not really sure why. I know the whole purging thing makes him uncomfortable but he can’t pretend he doesn’t want me to keep losing weight. We’ve been in the same class since fourth grade and he never even glanced at me before I started shrinking. When we first got together, he knew I wanted to lose more weight and he was so proud of me for it, kept offering me tips and tricks until he caught me purging at my uncle’s fourth of July barbeque. Like, I get it weirds him out but it takes discipline to be thin. He should know that. He’s on the wrestling team. I’m not sorry about how I’m doing it. I’m just sorry I’m in this stupid program now, with even less time to spend with him.

Checkout ends and we’re dismissed. I head down the hallway and push the call button on the elevator. As I’m waiting, I catch sight of CJ in the corner, talking in hushed tones to a general therapist. I want to eavesdrop but can’t figure out a way to do it subtly so, when it arrives, I get in the elevator and ride down to the lobby.

Mama is waiting for me when I get outside. I get in the car and check my phone to find Josh’s reply.

It wouldn’t kill you to try.

I scoff and slam the door shut.

“Gentle with the car please,” says Mama.

I ignore her to type out a reply to Josh.

I wish it would.

I can see he’s read the message but he’s not typing a reply.

“How’d it go?” Mama asks as we pull out of the parking lot.

“Stupid,” I say.

We pull onto the main road and start speeding toward home.

“Ameliana,” Mama says wearily, “you’re in this program of your own free will--”

“No I’m not. I’m not and you know I’m not so can everyone please stop saying that?”

“You made the choice to give this program a try,” Mama says, voice rising. “And if you’re not going to try, I’ll find an inpatient program for you right now.”

There she is. My manipulative, controlling mother. Overprotective, my ass. She just wants me to do what everything she says.

“Fine,” I say, turning to look out the window. There’s no point in arguing. There’s no reasoning with this woman.

We get home and I walk stiffly through the kitchen. The smell of mama’s dinner, chicken and potatoes I’m guessing, lingers in the air. My stomach groans but I ignore it and head down the hall to my room. Discipline, discipline, discipline. Resist or Regret.

I sit down in my desk chair and hold my hands in front of my face, watching them tremble with pride. I love shaking. I love feeling dizzy when I move too fast. I love the way my heart pounds with the simplest task. I made it the whole day. Still empty, still pure. I’d jump for joy if not for the fact my mother would hear it and bust me for exercising. Instead, I lower myself to the ground and start a set of sit ups. My stomach screams at me, still sore from yesterday, but I don’t care. The pain means it’s working. The room spinning means it’s working.

There’s nothing in the world more important to me than losing weight. I think of CJ Green and move faster. As if you can get a body like that with simple diet and exercise. It takes work, hard, painful work. And if she can do it, if she can get so close to perfection, so can I. I’ll do anything to be like her.

My stomach growls again and I stop to punch it. Stop whining, body. It’s your fault. If you looked like CJ Green, I wouldn’t have to do any of this. You did this to yourself. I lay back on my floor, breathing heavily and recite my real mantras.

Resist or Regret

You get what you work for, not what you wish for

Coffee, water, and cigarettes, that’s what pretty girls are made of

Hunger is a gift.

#The Gift of Hunger #Ameliana Martinez #Tia Martinez #Am writing #amwriting #original work #writeblr #writers #writers of tumblr #eating disorders #TW: Eating disorders #Writers on Tumblr

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learningtocope · 7 years

Text

Getting My Diagnosis

So I guess right now I’m gonna start from the beginning, kind of..? I will put a trigger warning on this as it may be read by others...

How I got diagnosed is kind of a shitty story, I was diagnosed at age 16 with Clinical Depression. I was put on medication and it did help, for a period of time. After about 2 and a half to three years-ish I felt like I was losing the ability to actually feel emotion? Like I knew when I should have felt happy and I could smile and what not, but I couldn’t feel the happiness in my chest and that upset me. So I stopped taking my medication and began to feel better, some days were worse then others. That’s normal though, until they start becoming more frequent again. I went back to my doctor after about a year and explained the situation to him again. Obviously my doctor was rather upset that I had not come to him originally to change my medication but he also understood at the same time, I was living about 3 hours of my doctor at that time. He prescribed me a medication called Zoloft. Zoloft is super effective for some people, so I accepted the medication change and asked when my follow appointment was to see how I was adjusting and he told me there was no need for a follow up.

At the time I didn’t think it mattered much either.

Fast forward about 3 months, I call my mom and tell her goodbye on my way home from work. I had everything planned before I got on the bus, but I wanted to hear my mom. I wanted her to know I loved her. I had told my “friend” (we’ll call them) that I would by to pick something up as the bus stop was just across from her house. I knew she’d be watching for me and I didn’t want it to seem odd so I went in and got what I needed. The tears were in my eyes as I stood there knowing this would likely be the last time I see her, we were never really super close but we were close enough that I knew I was going to miss her. I left in a rush to get home, I locked the door behind me and threw what I had picked up onto the table in the living room before going to my bedroom. I grabbed a box of band-aids and the bottle of Zoloft and headed to the bathroom. I sat and stared at the pill bottle in my hand... I was done. I didn’t want to breath. I didn’t want to hear my heart beating in my ears. I didn’t want to live. At that moment as I cried all I could think of was my little sister, I helped raise her with my mother and I know she loves me with all her heart. I knew she’d be devastated. My little brother. I hoped my mom wasn’t sitting on her bed crying, even though I knew she was. She knew what I was planning on doing, I was sure of it. I thought of my Best friends and the ones I talked so many times out of this. I was a hypocrite. There I was telling them that there was so much for them to live for, that there was people who loved them and that they needed to always remember that. The thoughts had me cry so hard I had dropped the bottle on the floor, but inside the band-aid box, which was in my lap, had something just as good. I pulled out the wadded up issue that was in there and began to cut. I hadn’t gotten very far when I heard the front door knob turn. My stomach dropped. My room mate was home. Then a knock as I pulled out a giant band-aid and stuck it over the area that was bleeding and pulled down my sleeve before shoving everything into my sweater pockets to bring to me with my room. The knock was odd, my roommate always had her keys but I wasnt taking any chances. If I didn’t go to the door she’d call me and know I was home.

When I walked around the corner and saw who was standing outside of my front door through the window, I felt my anger and despair rise. If I had done it already I wouldn’t have had to come to the door, I simply wouldn’t have been able too. Two police officers stood outside my front door. We stared at each other a moment through the glass before he knocked on the door again, still staring at each other. I slowly unlocked the door and opened it, I couldn’t really feel anything anymore. I had lost the ability to feel after I dropped the bottle. I couldn’t feel the sting on my arm, I couldn’t feel my heart beating, my breath filling my lungs. I could just imagine what my face must have looked like. They already knew my name, the addressed me by it as soon as the door cracked open even the slightest. They asked me what was going on, told me my mother had phoned them, and asked if they could come inside. I reluctantly stepped aside and let them come into my home. I looked and the table and rolled my eyes remebering what was all over my living room table. I had enough to deal with already I didn’t need that aswell. Once inside they told me I had two choices. 1. Go willing in an ambulance to the Hospital 2. Refuse to go and be taken there by them in the back of their car.

I remember saying, “Well, cloth restraints wont leave as bad a bruise as cuffs would.” and he radioed in to let the ambulance that was on its way already know I wasn’t in critical condition and had agreed to go willing in the ambulance. When it arrived I had just finished on the phone with my roommate, who was coming to the hospital after she was done work to see me.

The ambulance ride was hell. They asked me to turn over anything I had on my person that could cause harm to me or someone else. If I did not do this willing they would have a female nurse search me when I arrived. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the pills, handing them reluctantly to him. “Anything else?” The blade in my bra felt more noticable on the skin where it pressed against. My face must have changed, he reminded me again that they would search me at the hospital if he felt I didn’t hand everything over. I inhaled deeply and took it out. I held it within my hand a moment before passing it aswell to him. Yes I was angry now, but how much angrier would I have been had they strip searched me at the hospital? My anger boiled, tears began to spill from my eyes. I reached for the buckle that kept me in place in the seat. I was told I couldn’t do that. It clicked open and I put my head in my hands, “I want to go home.” was all I repeated as I kept trying to stand up only to have him put his hands on my shoulders and slowly sit me back down in the moving ambulance. I fought with him the entire way to the hospital yelling and crying that I was going home. I wasn’t going into the hospital, I didn’t care what they or my mother thought, she called for no reason.

When I was brought in they examined me. My arm was fairly covered, none too deep so there was no worry from them outside of the fact there was something going on and that I needed help and had agreed with them before hand. I was moved down to the ward waiting room, where they examine you and determine wiether you are able to leave the premises or if you’ll be there anywhere between just one night to 72 hours. This is call suicide watch. I waited a long time before I was seen and they requested alot of information from me. After I had answered all her questions, I asked the only on I had.

“I’m going home after this?”

I saw the nurses face change and I knew what she was going to say before she could prepare to speak. “I need to go home. I need to go home. You guys have everything. I need to go home. Please. I’m begging you. Let me go home.” The thought of being locked up in a room with no way to contact those I love and need in times like this only to be poked, prodded and questioned by doctors made my anxiety rise to the point where I felt the vomit in the back of my throat. She told me she’d speak with the doctor and be back shortly. It was the longest wait of my life. There was no way I was staying. I noticed there was a door to the hallway just beside me and if I needed to I could bolt out it and hopefully be gone before anyone can get me. I wasn’t staying. When the nurse came back, she asked me if I would be alone within the next 72 hours if she let me go home. I told her my room mate had already offered to take a few days off work if I needed her too. She handed me a piece of paper with a phone number, a time, and a date for 72 hours from then as I had been bumped to the top of the list. My release conditions were; I couldn’t be alone whatsoever within the next 72 hours. I had to call the phone number on the paper the following day to confirm the appointment, if I didn’t the police would be sent to bring me back. I had to follow through and go the appointment, if I didn’t the police would be sent to bring me back.

My mom and little brother had drove up the next day to see me. It was nice to see them and have them there to support me, but when they left the following day I felt alone.

When I went to the appointment I was sat down and ran through the same questions again. After a while the questions started to change a little bit, alot more of “okay well between the 2 weeks prior, what were you feeling like? mmhmm okay and what about this week?” After I had again answered all of someones questions, them picking apart my brain to no end. She looked at me said I was on the spectrum between Bipolar Disorder or Border-Line Personality Disorder (BPD). Both diagnosis have very, very similar signs and that she would review everything and have a diagnosis by the NEXT appointment, great.

Even hearing that made me angry. There was no way. I couldn’t be. I tried googling the signs and descriptions of each disorder to try and figure out for myself weither I have any of these signs or feel the way others with the disorders do. Even after reading I mean, I thought I was just very moody still. Not Bipolar or BPD. Sure as shit I got to my next appointment,

“You have bipolar disorder.”

My brain couldn’t compute, My anger bubbled, but I chewed the inside of my lip and rubbed my face shaking my head. There was no way. She began talking about the disorder, trying to explain it me the best way she can. Informing me of the signs I showed and how to start learning to recognize my highs and my lows.

Medication

Another thing I hate and have now got to get used to again. Another reason I stopped my first medication was I didn’t like the thought of having to rely on a pill to live my life. But the truth is I do, and I have to learn to accept that it isnt a bad thing. It doesnt make me weak. Its one of the biggest struggles. I ended moving back to my home town once my medication was regulated and fully in my system. I felt myself be more kind of balanced out, in a way I supposed. The embarressing thing is I am living back home at age 21 because I need more support then I’d like to admit. I can’t be alone alot still, I find I beat myself up too much when I am. Sleep is always hard to come by still, I still flip between Insomniac and Hypersomniac.

That was much longer than I had anticipated it to be, but that is how I got my diagnosis. Writing it out actually made me feel alittle bit better today, a slight weight lifted a bit let go.

#personal #triggerwarning #trigger #cope #learn #acceptting #bipolar #nervous #dontjudgeme #imjudgedenough #tryingtoletgo

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